


Towers

by meverri



Series: The End of All Things (Magnus Archives - LotR AU) [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Also some Melanie/Helen if you squint, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Lord of the Rings Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical spiders, Implied Tim/Sasha, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26168488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meverri/pseuds/meverri
Summary: Jon and his friends have split into factions. Jon and Martin journey toward Mordor with the Crown. Helen and Michael take a journey from which they cannot return. Melanie, Tim, Basira, and Daisy journey towards Gondor. Sasha returns. Along the way, they each encounter more of the Fears. The world grows ever more dangerous.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The End of All Things (Magnus Archives - LotR AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900990
Comments: 23
Kudos: 18
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is part two of my LotR AU for this year's Rusty Quill Big Bang. If you haven't read the first part in this series, please go back and start there—this won't make much sense without it.
> 
> Thanks again to @[aibari](https://aibari.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this fic. It was really fun to work together! (You should all check out their fic for this event—it's posted [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/63901378))
> 
> You can also contact me @[hundred-separate-lines](https://hundred-separate-lines.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Concussion

Jon stood in the archives, watching the world around him burn.

In front of him was a man whom he vaguely recognized. The man was older, though not as old as Gertrude had been; he was a human, but short for one; his eyes glowed menacingly with the fire’s reflection, as though it came from within him.

“Elias,” said Jon.

“That was one of my names,” he said. “Certainly, it can be my name, now.”

“Why do I know you?” Jon asked.

“We have many things in common,” said Elias. “You’re seeking the Panopticon, correct?”

Without thinking, Jon shook his head. “Hill Top,” he said. “To destroy the Crown. Do you know the way?”

“Certainly,” said Elias. “Would you like me to help you find it?”

“Please,” said Jon.

“Then Jon,” said Elias, “all you have to do is ask.”

  


* * *

  


Jon awoke with a start.

Martin stirred beside him. The bright greens of grass and trees had been left behind days ago, and here the ground was hard and brown with drought. There was no shelter under which to hide from enemy eyes, nowhere to shield oneself from any attacks, so they had agreed to take shifts for watch. Jon realized he must have fallen asleep, worn out from the many days’ trek that they had now undergone by themselves. Jon watched as Martin’s mouth fell open, a small line of drool dripping down his chin, and smiled.

He hated to interrupt Martin’s limited sleep, but the sun was beginning to rise, and they were still so far from Mordor. He shook Martin’s shoulder gently and called his name until Martin’s eyes blinked open, still bloodshot from exhaustion.

“Jon,” he mumbled, and then he sat up. “Wh’time’s it?”

“About six, I’d wager,” he said. “We need to get moving. It’s going to be a long day.”

Martin hummed and passed Jon a lump of cured meat and some bread. “Eat up,” he said as he began to pack their things.

Jon nibbled at his breakfast until Martin was ready to go, then handed Martin what remained. They walked together in quiet companionship until Martin glanced over at Jon and asked, “D’you really know where we’re going?”

Jon ruminated on his dream, on the strange man who had offered to guide him toward their goal. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt instinctively that he could trust Elias, whoever he was.

“I do,” he said. “I’m not sure how, but I’ve got a good idea of the route.”

“All right,” said Martin. “And, um, how dangerous is it, exactly?”

“Fairly dangerous,” said Jon.

“Oh, good. Perfect. Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jon. “I didn’t know when we left the Shire that it would be… I don’t know, like this? I had hoped we’d just be meeting Sasha in Bree and then heading home.”

“It’s not your fault, Jon,” said Martin. “You didn’t know.”

Jon hummed, but he let them fall back into that quiet companionship. Martin would occasionally comment on the scenery or the local plant life, but they largely walked in silence. It was comforting, in a way, to be left alone with one’s thoughts and a friend, a partner, with whom to walk.

Jon tried to take comfort in that, even as they walked towards hell.

  


* * *

  


“We need to keep moving,” said Tim.

Tim, Melanie, Basira, and Daisy had been running for nearly three days, only stopping to rest when it became absolutely necessary. Every moment that they rested was a moment when Michael and Helen were carried further away, and Melanie was afraid that if they stopped for too long, the hobbits would be lost forever.

At the same time, she knew their bodies couldn’t take much more of that breakneck pace. Tim kept pushing them onward, fueled by guilt or fear or anger, and Daisy was struggling to keep up on dwarven legs. Even Basira seemed exhausted, moving far slower than she had on their first day of the pursuit.

“We need to rest, Tim,” said Melanie. “We’ll take a break to eat, and then keep going.”

“We’re going to lose them,” he growled.

Daisy snarled right back at him. “We’ll be no help at all if we die of exhaustion on the way.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” said Tim. “You love this. You love chasing them. You’ve barely broken a sweat all day.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Daisy snapped.

“Oi!” said Melanie. “We’re stopping for lunch, and that’s final! If you want to fight, do it when we’ve found the hobbits. I’ll not have you wasting your breath on such a stupid argument.”

Daisy glared, but she dutifully set down her things and began to eat. Basira sat beside her, her leg pressed up against Daisy’s. Melanie tried not to stare.

She was used to spending months away from Georgie, but it never got easier.

Tim stormed around in a huff for a moment before finally joining them on the ground. They ate the last pieces of a rabbit Melanie had smoked before the hobbits were taken, and then Melanie went off in search of water, instructing Basira not to let the other two kill each other before she got back.

She came upon a river and stooped to fill their waterskins and wash her face and hands. The woods were oddly quiet, empty of birdsong and the scuttling of smaller things. The forest around her was comforting, but something had been off ever since Sasha had died. It felt as though the world knew that a real force for good had been snuffed out, like it was trying to take advantage of her absence. Without Sasha, their group had splintered, and now every crack was increasingly apparent. Basira and Daisy were off in their own little world, taking solace in each other in a way that made Melanie miss Georgie more than she would have thought possible. Tim's rage was a fickle thing, flaring at odd moments and driving her mad. Daisy kept lashing out, sneaking off to hunt before returning to them with kills they couldn't stop to cook. Without Sasha, they had been devastated; now, with the hobbits all gone, Melanie didn't know how much longer they could go on.

Melanie filled the waterskins and stood, her eyes watchful for any incoming threats. Nothing emerged from the shadows of the trees to assassinate her, so she made her way back to the others. When she had rejoined them, they packed their things and picked out the trail once more. Their pace was slower now, but it was more even; they wouldn’t need to stop again before nightfall.

Melanie could only pray that they wouldn’t be too late.

  


* * *

  


Helen awoke to a throbbing headache and the kind of motion sickness she had only experienced on boats.

Something soft was holding her in the air, hoisting her over its shoulder. It smelled of rotting meat and dying things. Helen turned her head to the side to try to avoid it, and beside her, she saw one of those Flesh Strangers carrying an unconscious Michael. His blonde hair had tumbled out of its usual brain and curled in wild spirals towards the ground, swinging at every step the monstrous thing took. Helen let out a shout of surprise.

“Shut up,” said something in a singsong voice, and Helen realized the thing could talk.

“My brother,” she said. “Please, is he all right? Is he breathing?”

“Not to worry,” said the monster. “Nikola would be very cross if we brought you back dead. You have something that she very much wants!”

“Nikola’s dead,” said Helen.

The monster laughed. “You mean that little tumble she took? Oh, darling, it’s much harder than that to kill an avatar.”

“Please let us go,” said Helen. “ _Please._ ”

“Not much chance of that!” said the monster.

Helen took that as the dismissal it was and tried to examine her current predicament. Her hands and feet were bound, and she felt weak. She remembered absently that it had been at least half a day since she’d last eaten, if not longer, though the scent of the Flesh around her had put her off the idea of food entirely. Michael’s hands were also bound, hanging uselessly underneath his hair, and he appeared to still be unconscious; he’d be of little help, even if she could come up with a plan to escape.

The monster had mentioned them having something Nikola wanted. Helen could only presume it meant the Crown, and she suspected telling them they had the wrong hobbits would lead to her and Michael’s untimely demise. No, she would have to wait for an opportunity to strike if she wanted to survive this; that much was clear.

It was with her head spinning that she resolved to simply listen and observe, to do what she could to get them both out of this alive. She only hoped that they could survive long enough to take the chance, when it came.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Concussion

The Flesh Strangers didn’t stop moving until after their third full day of travel, when they set Michael and Helen down at the edge of a dark forest and began to make camp. Helen was surprised; she hadn’t thought they would need something as mortal as rest. As they cut down a large and twisted tree to build a fire, Helen leaned over to Michael.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

Michael glanced at her, his pupils blown out and eyes unfocused. There was still dry blood tracing a line through his hair where it had dripped from his temple. Helen suspected a concussion, though she hoped it was a mild one.

“Please,” she said. “I just need to know you can understand me.”

“I can,” Michael whispered, looking pained. “’M sorry. Everything’s a bit… slow, right now.”

“That’s okay,” said Helen. She glanced up at where the Strangers were coaxing a flame out of the gnarled branches, which twisted in patterns that made her head hurt even more than it had from the Strangers’ rough treatment. “We need to watch for a moment when we can get away. If you see an opening, run, even if I can’t come with you.”

“Helen,” Michael protested, but she shook her head.

“If you can get away, you can get help,” she said.

Michael cursed. “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “I don’t think I can walk on my own.”

“Oh,” said Helen. Michael leaned his head against her shoulder and sighed. She did her best to lean closer, though her bound limbs made that difficult. “Okay. We can deal with that when we need to.”

“If you can get away,” Michael started, and Helen nodded.

“I know,” she said. “I’d go, and I’d figure out a way to contact the others so I could get you free.”

“Good,” said Michael. He closed his eyes.

“Don’t go to sleep,” said Helen, but Michael was already snoring lightly. She sighed and shook him awake. He jolted, but quickly nodded back off. Helen decided she would simply wake him in an hour or so, when he’d had some time to rest.

There was a scuffle going on among the Flesh creatures. Helen struggled to hear their voices, all artificial sweetness and ominous sing-song, over the whisper of the wind through the branches of the trees behind them. The trees’ bark had twisted into fractals as well, she realized, trying to follow a line up the trunk of the one nearest to them. They were the oddest trees she had ever seen, really; it was hard to look away.

“If we take it off them,” said one of the voices, “we can take all the Flesh we want!”

“Nikola’s orders were to bring them alive!” said another.

“Wouldn’t you like some more Flesh?” asked the first. “You’re looking a little empty, there, friend!”

The first began to move toward Helen and Michael. The second blocked them, and quickly the two were surrounded by other Flesh Strangers.

“Michael,” Helen hissed. He moaned in pain, but managed to open his eyes. “Quickly, we need to go into the forest.”

“What?” he asked, but Helen was already scooting back towards the trees, keeping her eyes on their strange spiraling bark. When he understood, he began to follow, wincing in pain with every movement. They managed to drag themselves to the tree line and were nearly into the woods when one of the creatures shouted.

“Oi!” they yelled. “I think our friends have wandered off!”

Helen flipped over and began to pull herself forward by her arms. Michael did the same, though more slowly. From behind them, Helen could hear the sound of wet meat thudding against the forest floor.

“Come on,” she groaned, but before they could escape, Michael shouted.

Helen turned. The creature held a wicked-looking knife that looked sharp enough to cut through bone. It was bringing the knife down on Michael’s chest, and Michael looked too stunned to move.

Then, all of a sudden, another creature tackled the first.

It was utter chaos. The creatures swarmed each other, piling on top of each other until they resembled a large, pulsing bag of meat. The first one’s sword had been knocked to the ground; Helen crawled over to it and managed to cut the bindings on her wrists, then used it to free her legs. She turned and helped Michael free himself, then pulled him to his feet and supported him as they limped into the forest, abandoning the Strange creatures behind them.

  


* * *

  


“We’re close,” said Basira.

Melanie shuddered at the thought. They had been skirting around the Schwartzvald Forest for nearly three hours in their pursuit of Michael and Helen. Melanie feared that the troupe of Strange creatures had travelled into its depths, where Melanie had never gone before; she knew that if they stepped into that forest, with all its ties to the Fears, they were unlikely to emerge.

“What’s the plan?” Tim asked, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

“We’ll need to see how they’re laid out before we decide,” said Daisy. “And how many there are. Hopefully we’ll be able to flank them, kick their asses, and get Helen and Michael out without too much trouble.”

“They’ll be prepared for that,” said Melanie. “The individual creatures may not be smart, but their master is. Nikola will have prepared them for anything.”

“Then we sneak them out of camp while their captors sleep,” said Daisy.

Tim frowned. “Do those things even sleep?”

“I doubt it,” said Basira. “Or if they do, it’s rare. Why make monsters that need rest?”

“Even monsters sleep,” said Daisy. Her eyes were sharp and calculating. Melanie looked away, uncomfortable.

“We’ll keep our eyes out,” said Melanie. “We’ll get them back!”

They followed the Strangers’ tracks for another mile. Melanie led them to a clearing where some of the spiraling trees had been pulled down and burned, leaving scorch marks that stretched along the grass. The grass was bent and broken in places, and dirt had been pulled up in a large pile, which stank vaguely of rotting meat.

“There was a battle,” Melanie said. She pointed to two small divots in the ground. “Someone crawled away—probably Helen and Michael.”

She traced the bent grass with her finger. It led directly into the Schwartzvald.

“Oh, no,” said Tim. “Oh, Christ. They’re going to die in there.”

“They could,” said Basira, “or they could make it through. We won’t know unless we follow them.”

“We can’t follow them in there,” said Melanie. “We can’t. We’d die. Even if they can make it through somehow, there’s no way we can. We’ve got to turn back.”

“Shit,” said Tim. “We can’t just leave them in there!”

“They’ve gone beyond our reach,” said Melanie. “I don’t know what more we can do.”

“We can’t just abandon them!”

"I can find them," Daisy said. There was a glint in her eyes that made Melanie nervous. Basira clutched at her arm.

“Daisy, no," she said. "Tim, they’re gone.”

Tim sat, dejected. Melanie joined him on the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If Sasha were here, or Jon…”

“That’s not your fault,” said Melanie.

“Don’t try to make it better,” said Tim, fire and anger crackling in his voice, so Melanie didn’t.

They didn’t really eat lunch, although they all made an effort. Melanie caught Tim staring into the forest at several points and prepared herself to stop him from fleeing into the trees in some misguided attempt to save their lost hobbits.

When they had rested for a while, Melanie stood and stretched. The sun was beginning to set, and she didn’t trust the shadows under the trees—or, more accurately, she didn’t trust the things they concealed. She had just opened her mouth to suggest that they keep going when a blinding light shone from the trees.

Melanie pulled out her sword, and beside her, Daisy, Tim, and Basira drew their weapons. Basira fired an arrow into the center of the light, and inside it, a figure swept an arm in front of its face, deflecting the arrow and sending it into one of the gnarled trees beside it. Tim fired another, and it did the same thing, this time to the other side.

“What are you?” Daisy shouted. “Identify yourself, now!”

“Oh, really,” said the figure. Its voice was muddy, as though it were a thousand voices all speaking in unison, reflecting every person Melanie had ever heard. She kept her sword drawn. “Do you not recognize your old friend?”

“Who are you?” Basira shouted as she nocked another arrow.

The figure stepped forward, and the light began to fade around it. The shape resolved itself into a person wearing blindingly bright white robes and holding a staff which pulsed with power. Her blonde hair fell around her shoulders, and her grey eyes shone.

“Sasha,” Tim breathed, and she smiled.

“It’s good to see you again,” she said.

  


* * *

  


Michael and Helen had been wandering for what felt like hours when they finally admitted to themselves that they were lost.

The sun had set, and all Helen could see were those spiraling trees, their branches twisting into unrecognizable shapes and patterns. She and Michael had found a large tree and sat beside it, resting their tired limbs. Helen wished they had food, or even just some water; they had found no living beings in the forest, and she wasn’t sure if they would. She was no longer afraid that the creatures would find them, but she was very afraid that they would starve to death before they could find their way out of that forest.

“Are you all right?” Michael asked.

Helen snorted. “As all right as I can be, considering,” she said. “How about you? How’s your head?”

Michael shrugged. “It hurts,” he said.

Helen nodded. “Sleep for a while,” she said. “I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours.”

“Okay,” said Michael. He leaned his head against her shoulder and fell asleep, snoring lightly. It was the only sound in the entire forest, which unsettled Helen to no end.

She wasn’t sure exactly when she had fallen asleep, but when she awoke, there was a yellow door in the clearing in front of her.

The grain of its wood spun in those same spiraling fractals that patterned each tree. Helen found herself drawn to each line, trying to trace it to its end, only for her vision to jump to a nearby thread until she was so hopelessly dizzy that all she could see was the door.

“Michael,” she whispered.

“I see it,” he responded. She hadn’t even realized he was awake.

“It’ll take us wherever we need to go,” said Helen. She didn’t know how she knew. “We should go before it disappears.”

She stood and helped Michael to his feet. The door called to her so sweetly, like it would take her home, like it would be her home. Beside her, Michael clutched her hand tightly.

They approached the door cautiously but reverently. Helen reached out, but just before her fingers could touch the doorknob, it swung open. Beyond it was a sea of swirling colors, bright and beautiful and incomprehensible. They stepped into the hallway, and the door shut behind them.

If anyone had been watching, they would have seen the door disappear into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Alcohol mention, drowning, weapons

“How the hell did you survive?” Tim asked.

They had been walking for about an hour. When Melanie had asked if she knew where the hobbits were, Sasha had frowned.

“I don’t,” she said. “They have moved beyond my power. I do know, however, that they are no longer in those woods.”

Considering Sasha’s words, they had all decided that the best course would be to continue their journey towards Gondor. As the last stronghold of man before the wicked kingdom of Mordor, it would be crucial to their fight, and to their ability to keep the great Eye of the panopticon locked away from Jon and Martin’s quest. Melanie secretly suspected that Tim’s main motivation was to return home before any more harm could befall them and raise Gondor’s army against Mordor. Although she would never have admitted it, she wanted to do the same; Mordor had now taken two of their fellowship from them, had killed Sasha (or so they’d thought), and had forced Jon and Martin into a dangerous mission with no guidance. If Jonah Magnus were in front of her, Melanie would have strangled him first and asked questions later.

“It was all so strange,” said Sasha. “Nikola and I were falling, and then there was a great burst of light. Everything faded for a while, and then I was back in that forest. I knew that I would find you if I left the trees behind, so I did.”

“Nikola clearly underestimated your power,” said Tim. “How could she have known that we had the world’s most bad-ass wizard on our side? She never stood a chance.”

“She was strong,” said Sasha. “A worthy foe, and one I would not underestimate. Even with her gone, the power of the Stranger remains.”

“Yeah, but we’ll still kick their asses,” said Tim.

“How far are we from Gondor?” Daisy asked. She rubbed at her nose and glanced through the trees at the forest’s edge, eyes bright. She had been sniffing the air for hours; Melanie was beginning to be concerned for her nasal health.

“Not far,” said Melanie. “Maybe a month by foot. Less, if we can get horses, though I don’t think that’ll be possible for a while yet.”

Daisy grabbed Basira’s hand. “What then?”

“We’ll get there when we get there,” said Tim. “For now, I’m just looking forward to the feast they’ll throw when we get back. There’ll be fresh bread, and pies, and _so much ale._ ”

“I could use some pie,” said Basira.

“I would kill for bread,” said Daisy. “The real stuff, not hardtack.”

“And ale,” said Melanie.

Sasha smiled mildly. “I’d just like a warm bed with a real mattress. Sleeping on the ground is such a pain.”

“Do you have family there, Tim?” Melanie asked.

Tim glanced nervously at Sasha, then back at the others. “I did,” he said. “Uh, a brother. He died, and our parents were never really the same, after that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Melanie. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories.”

“It’s all right,” said Tim. “He was a great guy. You’ll see, when we get to Gondor—everyone remembers Danny Stoker. He was really funny, and a total adventurer. Really awesome kid.”

They walked in silence for a while after that, though Daisy and Basira allowed themselves to drop behind for a muttered conversation. Melanie kept an eye out for a place to make camp, though there was nowhere ideal; they had left behind the cover of the forest for hilly plains with little cover from any approaching enemies. Melanie set up a watch and found a place at the top of a hill where their cover would be lessened but their ability to see enemies would be heightened, then set up their camp. 

Tim sat beside Sasha and offered her his waterskin. As she drank, he began regaling them all with stories about his home.

“It’s a beautiful city,” he said. “Robert Smirke designed it a thousand years ago. If you read over his old notes, it’s actually quite interesting. There are all these tunnels underneath the city, which they use if there’s ever an invasion. You can get miles away from there without anyone knowing where you’ve gone. They used to send the children down there to escape.”

“Have you been in the tunnels?” Sasha asked mildly.

Tim’s face darkened somewhat, then regained its usual cheery smile. “Once,” he said, “a long time ago. Danny liked exploring. One time, he brought me along, but you already know that story.”

Sasha’s face retained its mild smile, but Tim’s expression fell once more, and the group was silent for a time. Basira and Melanie cooked while the others rested and set up camp.

The sun set, and they set up watch. Tim and Melanie were first. They sat by the dying embers of their fire. The wind began to grow cold, and Melanie threw her cloak over her shoulders.

“The Stranger took him,” Tim said suddenly.

Melanie glanced up at him. “Your brother?” she asked cautiously. Tim seemed to have regained some of that angry fire in his eyes, as though he would burn the world for what it had taken from him. Melanie didn’t trust that look.

Tim nodded. “He went into the tunnels, and it was there. He was young, and it took him, and now he’s dead.”

Tim glanced at Sasha’s sleeping form. Melanie wanted to reach out and comfort him, but she wasn’t sure how.

“Sasha’s still here,” she said, hoping it would be some reassurance. “It didn’t get her.”

Tim nodded. “Sasha’s still here,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. Some of that fire had faded. “I don’t know why I blamed Jon for that. It was so stupid.”

“You were angry,” said Melanie.

“I was an idiot,” Tim replied.

Melanie shrugged. “Yeah, you were,” she said. She knew the appeal of anger—she had fought it all her life. She could hardly fault Tim for losing control. “Somehow, though, I think this is how this was meant to happen. I think Jon had to do this part alone.”

Tim nodded. “Not completely alone, though. At least he has Martin.”

Melanie snorted. “Poor boy,” she said. “He’s completely smitten.”

“Yeah, well,” said Tim, once again glancing at Sasha, “Jon will come ‘round someday. Sasha says he’s a bit clueless when it comes to romance.”

“Not surprising.”

Tim chuckled. “And you?” he asked. “Got a special someone?”

Melanie laughed. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, she’s pretty special. You met Georgie back in Rivendell.”

“Oh, shit,” said Tim. “Georgie? Like, will-someday-be-a-crazy-powerful-elf-queen Georgie?”

“That’s the one.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Impressive,” he said. “She seems sweet.”

“She is. I’m going to propose when all of this is over. I’m tired of leaving her every couple of months.”

Tim hummed. “Best of luck, then, I suppose. I always thought Sasha and I— Well, I'm just glad she's alive. It's always nice when she comes to visit, and I always miss her when she leaves. At least now I get to travel with her for a while.”

Melanie frowned. "Why don't you just go with her? Surely she wouldn't mind."

Tim shrugged. "I can't exactly _leave_ Gondor," he said. "I mean, my father's the steward. He's getting older, and it's been hell for him since Danny and Mum died." He sat up a little straighter, staring into the last specks of orange light with renewed light. "It's my duty to take care of Gondor until the king returns. And anyway, I love the city. It's my home."

Melanie nodded and thought of a life spent wandering. She thought of Georgie, and of the future she could have in Rivendell. She resolutely did not think of Gondor.

 _Until the king returns,_ she thought. The wind blew a little bit colder.

  


* * *

  


“Oh, gross,” said Martin.

They had reached a long stretch of swamp land that extended as far as they could see until, at the edge of it, the mountain range surrounding Mordor rose into view. It was covered with dark clouds, and Jon tried not to let his fear show as Martin looked over at him and shook swamp mud off his boots.

“We’ll just have to find the shallowest parts,” said Jon. “It’s far too large to go around it.”

“Are you sure it’s _safe?_ ” Martin asked. “I mean, we won’t get pulled in by a tentacle monster or anything, right?”

Jon peered out at the dark water. “Not a tentacle monster,” he said. “There’s something else here.”

“Oh, well, _that’s_ reassuring,” said Martin.

Jon took his hand and began to wade into the mud, examining the ground closely before each step. After a little while, they came to a series of raised muddy ridges that allowed them to walk out of the water entirely, and their progress became much smoother. They held hands even as they were forced to walk single-file, and Jon was grateful; something about the water frightened him very deeply, and he didn’t like the idea of traversing the swamp alone.

It was Martin who spotted it first. He jumped and let out a sharp shout, nearly sending Jon toppling when he whipped around to face some unknown enemy.

“Look,” said Martin, pointing into the murky depths.

Jon looked. As it turned out, ‘depths’ were hardly the right word; the water couldn’t be much deeper than three or four feet at its deepest, and in several areas, plants poked through the surface. Jon peered further, and then he saw it; a pale white face, eyes closed as though in sleep, turned up towards the sky.

“There’s thousands,” Martin said, and as he spoke, Jon saw them. It was an entire army, lying in wait beneath the still water. Jon’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Just stay out of the water,” Jon said.

Martin nodded. “Duly noted.”

They continued their trek hand-in-hand. Every so often, Jon would have to peer out into the distance to try and find another area of raised land. Then, he’d chart a course that didn’t disrupt any of the corpses, and he and Martin would have to move as quickly and silently as possible through the muck, too scared of disrupting the dead to speak or even breathe.

The peace could hardly last. Jon wasn’t surprised when he found himself slipping into the water; in fact, he barely made a sound as his body was submerged, as he fell directly into the arms of one of the corpses.

Its eyes snapped open, and its arms closed around him.

Jon struggled, trying to push away from the thing’s decaying form, but its grip was strong and he hadn’t managed to take a breath before slipping under the surface. The water muted every movement, but it didn’t manage to drown out the eerie sound of a piper playing over the swamp. As Jon’s vision began to waver, the piper grew louder, and Jon began to drown in its music.

Suddenly, another strong pair of arms enclosed him and yanked, and then he was gasping for breath, the murky water rippling below him.

“Jon!” Martin shouted. Jon clung to his arms like a vice, choking on muck.

“Get back!” Jon tried to yell, though it came out mangled. “Get back!”

Bodies rose from the water as the piper grew louder. Jon managed to settle himself on his feet and pulled Martin forward. “Run!” he shouted as the first sword was drawn.

They scrambled along the muddy path, slipping at nearly every step. Flies buzzed around Jon’s now-soaked hair, and he swatted at them, trying to peer through their masses to find safe places to step. From every direction, the army of the dead prepared for battle. The sound of war drums joined the piping like a thudding heartbeat ringing through the swamp.

“This way!” Martin shouted, tugging on Jon’s arm. He pulled them toward a sparser part of the swamp and away from the tip of a sword that had just erupted from below the surface, nearly spearing Jon through the knee.

“Shit,” Jon gasped. His muddy hair whipped into his eyes as Martin pulled them to a deeper part of the swamp. The mud sucked at their feet, slowing them to nearly a crawl.

“Jon!” Martin shouted. The water was nearly at his waist now, and he was sinking lower. One of the dead soldiers lunged forward and managed to spear him through the shoulder. A thin rivulet of blood and water began to seep down his shirt. Martin pulled him away from the soldier frantically and kept shoving him further into the swamp.

It felt useless. There were soldiers in every direction, closing in around Jon and Martin and leaving nowhere to escape. Jon drew his sword and peered at them, desperate, trying to find any angle where they weren’t completely doomed. He found nothing.

“Well, Martin,” he yelled, his voice shrill with terror, “I guess this is—”

He didn’t finish that thought. One of the soldiers lunged forward. At the same time, a bright yellow door appeared before them. It swung open to reveal a swirling, unintelligible hallway, like someone had tried to draw a nightmare. Jon knew without knowing how that it was the Spiral, beckoning them in with the false promise of escape.

_Out of the frying pan,_ Jon thought hysterically, before pulling them both inside and shutting the door.

  


* * *

  


When Melanie awoke, Helen was standing in front of her.

“Wha—?” Melanie mumbled, but was stopped by Helen holding a slender finger to her lips.

“Ssh,” she said. “Come with me.”

There was something wrong with her voice, with her eyes, but Melanie didn’t see a better option. Basira, Sasha, and Tim slept soundly, and Daisy stood a ways away, patrolling the hill dutifully. Melanie wasn’t sure how Helen had managed to sneak up on them so easily, but she wasn’t sure she’d find out if Daisy turned and saw them.

“Right,” said Melanie, and she followed Helen down the hill.

The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the field around them a pale gold. The morning held the heat of late summer, of the final gasp before the seasons changed. Melanie pulled at her sweaty shirt and said nothing until they had reached the base of the hill. Nonsensically, there was a yellow door standing there, attached to nothing but the ground. Melanie resolutely did not look at the spiralling wood grain on its surface.

“You know something’s wrong,” said Helen, without any further context.

Melanie raised an eyebrow. “I do,” she said.

Helen laughed. It was a light but grating sound, so unlike the laughter she had shared with Michael when Melanie had seen them last. “Not me, silly,” she said. “That one’s obvious.”

Melanie frowned. “You mean, with one of the others?”

“It wouldn’t be much of a warning if it were about _me,_ ” said Helen. “I mean you no harm, Ghost. Not really. Wouldn’t be very fun to see you fail so early on. Yes, I mean one of the others.”

Melanie glanced back at where they had made camp. Daisy had made nearly a full lap of the hill, and clearly, she could tell something was wrong. She kept turning around as though something were standing behind her, then glancing at Tim, Sasha, and Basira’s sleeping forms. For some reason, she didn’t seem to have noticed that Melanie had left.

“You mean Sasha,” said Melanie.

“Is that what you’re calling her these days?” Helen asked, her mouth stretching up in a smile that didn’t quite seem to fit on her face. “You used to know her by another name.”

“But…”

Melanie glanced back at the camp again. Sasha’s pale hair glimmered in the early light, and her long, pale, bare fingers brushed against Tim’s back so fondly, as though brushing against a lover. Melanie squinted, and the image _shifted_ —her fingers shouldn’t have been bare, she realized. Sasha always wore rings, so many that they glimmered with every movement. She could have taken them off to sleep, yes, but Sasha hadn’t worn a single ring since the forest. And her hair was wrong, too, pale and straight and long where it should have been dark and curly and barely brushing her shoulders. Her skin had been brown, hadn’t it, almost as dark as Georgie’s? And her eyes were supposed to be dark, too, not pale blue, not like water but like the earth, like the warmth of a summer afternoon when the ground had been tilled and the planting was done and one could sit with a friend and smoke pipeweed until the sun set.

_That’s not Sasha,_ Melanie thought, and it was like realizing she was seeing through glass.

“I think you’ve got it,” said Helen. “Best not to let her know you know, hmm?”

Melanie turned back to her. “You aren’t Helen, either,” she said.

Helen shrugged. “I am, and I’m not,” she said. “But I’m honest about my dishonesty. It makes it harder to know when I’m lying. And oh, my dear Melanie, I’m always lying.”

“What are you?” Melanie asked.

“I’m something new,” said Helen. “But anyway, you won’t find Helen anytime soon. Nor Michael, I suppose. They’ve become something rather interesting, and I daresay they won’t be the way you remember them again. Not like her, but then, not unlike her, either.”

Melanie drew her sword. “Give her back,” she said through gritted teeth.

Helen stepped back toward the door. It opened at her slightest touch, revealing only swirling chaos within. Her form seemed to stretch and shift, revealing twisted limbs and sharp fingers and a wicked smile. “Oh, and Jon and Martin are safe,” she said. “I think that’s all the help I’ll be giving you, for a while. Might want to wait until you’re alone to tell the others. Tim will be so _deliciously_ angry, don’t you think?”

“Wait—” said Melanie, but even as she stepped forward, the door swung closed and disappeared entirely.

  


* * *

  


Jon and Martin emerged at the entrance to a cave, dry and cold and mercifully free of zombie soldiers.

“Christ,” Martin said. “Where are we?”

Jon turned back, but the door had disappeared, leaving only rock in its wake. “I don’t know,” he said. “I… I don’t understand.”

Martin glanced up at him and winced. “We need to clean your shoulder, or it’ll get infected,” he said. “Here, sit down. I’ll take care of it.”

Jon allowed himself to be led to a small ledge, where Martin relieved him of his pack and grabbed a dry shirt from his own. He began to clean Jon’s shoulder, washing it first with drinking water and then with a small flask of alcohol he had carried from the Shire. When Jon winced at its sting, Martin turned and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then turned bright red.

“Um,” he said, frozen.

“Uh,” said Jon, also frozen.

Martin ducked down and began to stitch up the wound, resolutely avoiding Jon’s gaze. “So, where are we?” he asked, his voice high and strained.

Jon cleared his throat. “Um, I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “Closer to Mordor, if I had to guess based on the darkness and the, uh, rocks.”

“Right,” said Martin, and then, “Sorry,” when Jon hissed with pain as the needle pierced his skin.

“Not your fault,” said Jon. “I think we ought to rest for the night, then. We’ll figure out how to get further in the morning.”

“Yeah,” said Martin. He wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. What I wouldn’t give for a bath.”

Jon nodded. Martin finished stitching the wound and wrapped it in clean bandages. Jon missed the sure warmth of his fingers as they pulled away.

“No wood for a fire,” said Martin. “I’ll try to make up a camp. You change into something dry before you catch your death.”

Jon did so, retreating behind a shelf of rocks to change, and then joined Martin in spreading a couple of blankets across the ground to shield them from the cold stone. Martin broke a piece of hardtack in half and split some salted meat between the two of them. Jon didn’t have much of an appetite, but he knew Martin would bother him if he didn’t finish it, so he did, barely tasting the salt. He took only a small sip of water when he was finished, though he would have liked to drain his entire waterskin; he knew, somehow, that it would be some time before they found water again.

The air around them grew darker, though Jon could not see the sun through the thick clouds that covered the sky. Martin covered them both with blankets and sat with his back against a stone wall. Jon shivered and huddled closer to his legs, trying to block out the cold with Martin’s warmth. He had a feeling he wouldn’t sleep much that night.

Even as he thought that, the world around him shifted. He was aware of a man standing very close beside him, staring down at him and Martin with something unpleasant in his gaze. Jon turned, and there was Elias, his eyes almost glowing in the darkness.

“Hello, Jon,” he said. “I see you’ve befriended the Distortion. That’s a wise move on your part; I wouldn’t have thought you’d trust it so easily.”

Jon frowned. “Do you mean the door?” he asked.

Elias nodded. “The Spiral. The Distortion. Es Mentiras. It goes by many names.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Jon pointed out.

“No, I suppose you didn’t. Quite a nasty cut on your shoulder, isn’t it?”

Jon hummed. “It’ll heal.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Elias was sitting now, his legs crossed inches from Jon’s body. Jon hadn’t seen him move. “Do you know where you need to go next?”

In a flash, Jon did. He told Elias as much. Elias smiled.

“Good,” he said. “Well, I’ll let you rest, shall I?”

Jon’s eyes grew heavy. He hummed again, shifting closer to Martin. Distantly, he felt Martin’s hand run through his hair.

“Good night, Jon,” said Elias. “Sleep well, my Archive.”

Jon didn’t have the energy to wonder what that meant.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Fire, blood, weapons

Melanie walked, keeping one wary eye on Sasha—or, she supposed, not-Sasha. Not-Sasha laughed lightly at something Tim had said, and it sounded so wrong, so lifeless, that Melanie wanted to be sick.

“Melanie?” Basira asked, shaking Melanie out of her stupor.

She glanced back at Basira and Daisy, who were still holding hands, though Basira had her other hand resting on her bow. Melanie frowned, and Basira nodded to the field ahead of them.

Melanie turned. The valley was wide and flat, a relieving break from the hills they had been crossing for days. The long grass flowed in the breeze like a great ocean, reflecting the sun in little flashes of green and gold. It was pretty, all things considered, though Melanie wasn’t particularly comforted by that fact. She turned again and shook her head at Basira, confused.

“The Slaughter,” Daisy said. “I can smell it.”

“Smell it?” Tim asked. “Shit, I can _hear_ it.”

As she said that, Melanie realized she could. There was a faint drumbeat ringing through the air. Melanie grabbed Tim and not-Sasha by the shoulders and brought them to a stop, her hand resting on her sword.

“Down in that valley?” she asked.

Basira nodded. “Look. You can see them, if you squint. They’re hidden in the grass.”

Melanie looked again, and this time, as the breeze rippled across the valley, she saw them—hundreds of soldiers, lying in wait for an unseen army.

“Shit,” said Tim. “Can we go around?”

“Don’t think so,” said Basira. “I expect we’ll have to go through them. Don’t think we’ll be able to get around them even if we travel for days. I think they’re here for us.”

“Right,” said Melanie. “Okay. Shit.”

“If we must travel through them,” said not-Sasha, “We will need a plan.”

“I _know,_ ” Melanie snapped. Tim glanced up at her, surprised at the outburst, but not-Sasha’s face stayed as eerily expressionless as ever. Melanie wanted to scream. How could the others miss the blindingly-obvious fact that this thing wasn’t their friend, and never had been?

“We stick together,” said Daisy. “Weapons drawn. We move quickly. It’s the best way.”

Tim frowned. “I don’t think we can make it like that,” he said. “Not without a significant distraction.”

“We haven’t got a distraction,” said Basira. “Just swords and bows. If we had an army, we would _maybe_ make it through.”

“Not if we’ve given them something else to battle,” said Tim. “They’re in a field full of wheat, and we have a wizard. What if we set a fire? It’d go up quickly, and Sasha could protect us from the heat.”

Melanie frowned. The not-Sasha thing smiled placidly. “I can do that,” she said.

“Wait,” said Melanie. Not-Sasha looked at her, eyes cold and empty. Melanie’s heart stuttered in her chest. _Don’t let her know that you know._ “Uh, are we sure they’ll be distracted by the fire?”

“It won’t kill them,” said not-Sasha, “but it will hurt them. That may be enough.”

“It’s the best plan we’ve got,” said Basira. “I say we take it.”

“I agree,” said Daisy. “Let’s burn the fuckers.”

Melanie glanced at Tim. In stark contrast to not-Sasha’s cool expression, Tim’s eyes were full of fire and rage. It scared Melanie, a bit, to think that he could still hold that much anger, even when he thought Sasha had been returned. Maybe he knew, deep down, that something was wrong, or maybe his anger was too old to be quenched by Sasha’s return. In either case, Melanie had the horrible impression that she would see him self-immolate, in the end.

“All right,” she said, resigned. “We all stick close to Sasha, and we keep our swords drawn. Let’s burn it down.”

“Hell yeah,” said Tim. “Light it up, Sash!”

They approached the edge of the valley with caution. The figures in the grass didn’t move, but the drumbeat grew louder and faster, like a heartbeat anticipating a fight. Not-Sasha spread her arms, her staff held aloft, and began to chant in a language that made Melanie’s head hurt. It wasn’t the elvish Sasha had used to cast before; this was, Melanie believed, the ancient and dark language of Mordor, drawing power from the Fears. It set Melanie’s teeth on edge, so she tried not to listen too carefully.

Along the edge of the grass, curls of smoke began to rise delicately into the air. Melanie watched as the grass began to smolder, then to bend in on itself, cracks of red emerging from within each stalk. The entire valley was ablaze in seconds, with black smoke pouring off of it in waves. Not-Sasha waved her arms again, and the smoke parted around them, much to the relief of Melanie’s eyes and lungs.

“All right,” said Daisy. “Let’s go.”

  


* * *

  


“Are you _sure_ we’re not lost?” Martin asked.

It was the third time they had come to a fork in the cave in the last ten minutes. Jon gazed down each branch intently, as though doing so would somehow make the correct path more clear to him. It didn’t help.

He sighed. “We _weren’t_ lost,” he said. “But, if I’m honest, I don’t know which way to go.”

He sat by the wall of the cave, already weary from hours of walking. Martin joined him on the ground and began to rummage in his pack.

“Might as well check your shoulder,” he said. “Don’t want it getting infected.”

Jon’s mind was suddenly filled with the image of silver worms wriggling into his skin. “No, we certainly don’t,” he agreed.

Martin pulled out his little medical pack and peeled the bandages from Jon’s shoulder. Just before he could dab at the wound, he paused.

“What?” Jon asked, glancing down at his shoulder.

There was no wound. Instead, there was a tiny silver scar, as though the wound had healed years ago. It matched the silver circles that wound up and down his arms and the one that slashed across his throat from the Hunter’s knife. He probed it gently with his fingers and was surprised to note that it did not hurt.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s… odd.”

Martin sat back and let out a puff of breath. “You healed pretty quickly after Nikola attacked,” he pointed out. “That wound should have killed you. I thought you were dead. Think Sasha did, too.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair. “What’s _happening_ to me?” he wondered aloud.

Martin glanced at his shoulder, then back at his face. “Whatever it is,” he said, “it’s kept you alive for this long, so it can’t be all bad.”

Jon nodded and shoved his hands into his pocket. The ring sat there, cool and heavy. Jon frowned.

“I’ve just realized,” he said, pulling the Crown from his pocket. “It isn’t safe to keep this in my pocket. I should have lost it in the swamp; it’s only luck that’s kept it with me this far.”

“I don’t think it’s luck,” said Martin, but he reached for his neck anyway.

Martin had always worn something on a gold chain around his neck. Jon had never seen its pendant, as Martin kept it tucked into his shirt, but he’d seen the chain peeking out from behind his collar when Martin grew sheepish and rubbed at the back of his neck. It was just a small gesture, one that Jon hadn’t even realized he’d noticed, but it was enough to reveal that glimmering golden chain every once in a blue moon. Jon realized all of these things as Martin drew the chain from around his neck to reveal a tiny locket, which he slid off the chain and placed in his pocket.

“Here,” he said, handing the chain to Jon. “It’ll be harder to take off this way. Harder to accidentally put the ring on, too.”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t take this.”

Martin sighed. “Sure you can, Jon. I’m giving it to you.”

"I can't."

"Jon," Martin began, but Jon cut him off.

"How can I take it?" he asked. The Crown was heavy in his hand. " _Isn't it important to you?_ "

"Of _course_ it is," Martin sighed. "It belonged to my mother. My father gave it to her before he left. It's all she kept from him. I found it in the back of her closet _years_ ago, and when I found it, she wanted to throw it out. I dug it out of the garbage and kept it. She hated my father for what he did, but I always wondered: what if he left because he couldn't take her anymore? I wanted to leave, too. Was I just too weak?"

Martin blinked. Jon did, too. Martin's words echoed through the caves around them, settling into the dust and leaving only shocked silence behind. Martin's cheeks had gone red. Jon felt rather faint. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't—"

"I've never told anyone that before," Martin mumbled.

"I'm so sorry, Martin. I wasn't trying— I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

Jon watched as Martin took a deep breath, then took another. There were tears in his eyes. Jon wiped them away with the back of his hands.

“Just take it,” Martin whispered.

Jon nodded. Martin sniffled before pressing the chain into Jon’s hand.

“Just, please take it,” he said. “I don’t need it.”

Jon nodded hesitantly and slipped the Crown onto the chain. “All right,” he said. “All right. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin gave him a fragile smile. “You’re very welcome, Jon,” he said. Then he gathered his things, stood, and brushed the dust off the seat of his pants. He extended a hand down to Jon, who took it, admiring the solid warmth of Martin’s palm.

“Now, come on,” said Martin, his voice sounding much more steady. “It’s time to find a way out of here.”

  


* * *

  


The flames enveloped them. Though The-Thing-That-Was-No-Longer-Sasha had woven her magic around them to protect them from the fire and smoke, there was still an intense heat hanging in the air. Melanie resisted the urge to reach for her waterskin, instead choosing to keep her sword drawn and her mind alert.

The Slaughter’s army had scattered, but occasionally a soldier would appear out of the flames, swinging wildly at some unseen enemy with a sword or axe. When this happened, Sasha would simply flick her hand, and the soldier would wander away, screaming. It made Melanie sick to her stomach, but it was better than staying in that wretched valley for even a second longer than they had to. The piper’s music was digging into her mind like nails through clay, carving into her thoughts and exposing the anger and frustration with this whole damn mission that lay beneath. The drummer’s beat echoed her raging heart, loud and steady and strong.

“We’re almost through,” said Basira, whose elf eyes were best suited to piercing the flames. “Only a hundred yards more.”

They moved as quickly as they could in the stifling heat. The air itself was hot enough to sting, but they did not slow; they knew that every second spent in that field could mean their demise.

They were less than fifty paces from the fire front when an arrow whizzed above their heads, burning bright as a shooting star. It barely missed Tim before it disappeared in the flames on the other side of them. Melanie swung wildly in the general direction from which it had come, but she could see no shambling corpses, no great specters of evil. No, in this place, in the middle of this blazing field, all she could see was the red-orange-yellow-blue of flames as they danced into the sky. Daisy took a sudden step forward, as though she meant to chase after whichever ghost had fired the arrow, but Basira grabbed her by the arm and held her close.

“Stay with me,” said Not-Sasha, almost grimacing. It was the closest approximation to an expression Melanie had seen her make. “We’ll be out of here soon.”

Another arrow whizzed over their heads, this time close to Not-Sasha. They kept moving, resisting the overpowering urge to look back. Melanie gritted her teeth as the flames grew higher.

The body came out of nowhere—a skeleton, really, covered in only the barest traces of bubbling flesh. Basira screamed as it latched onto her shoulders, its sword drawn.

Melanie didn’t have time to think. She simply acted, pulling Basira back with one arm and raising her sword with the other. The creature began to tip forward, missing the muscles required to maintain balance. Melanie let it fall, bringing her sword around in an arc to lop off its head. It disconnected with a satisfying snick, as easily as cutting through vines.

“Melanie!” Basira shouted, and then Melanie felt it— a terrible, stabbing pain in her thigh.

The terrible, stabbing pain, as it turned out, was due to a large arrow that the skeleton had left embedded in her thigh. _He must have still had control of his arms,_ she thought, even as she collapsed.

And then, of course, she wasn’t thinking very much at all. Tim had swept her up in his arms in seconds, and Basira had grabbed her sword, and then they were running to escape the mounting flames, doing everything they could to avoid being broiled. When they had made it out of the fire, Not-Sasha turned, and the whole field grew ten times brighter and, from what Melanie could feel standing apart from it, ten times hotter.

“Shit,” said Daisy. “Basira, grab your bag. Tim, set her on the ground.”

“We’re too exposed here,” he said, even as he obeyed Daisy’s orders. “We’re vulnerable to attack.”

“Yeah, we are,” Daisy agreed, “so move quickly. No complaining. Let me see her leg.”

She began to probe at the edges of the wound as Basira rummaged in her bag for medical supplies. Melanie did her best to hold onto consciousness, but she could tell she was losing blood fast.

_Sorry, Georgie,_ she thought. _Not how I thought I’d go._

“Put pressure on that,” Daisy shouted. “Don’t pull the arrow out yet.” Tim pressed on the wound without further complaint. Beside him, Not-Sasha stood, looking concerningly unconcerned.

“Can’t you help?” Melanie slurred. “With your, um, magic bullshit?”

Not-Sasha shook her head. “I’m not a healer,” she said. “I have no power over human life, not really. It is for the gods to decide.”

“Gee, thanks, Sasha,” said Basira. She passed a makeshift tourniquet over to Daisy with shaking hands. “What else, Daisy?”

Daisy shook her head. “Just standby,” she said. “I might need your hands in a second.”

Melanie shivered. She was growing colder by the second, which seemed as though it should be impossible, given her proximity to the raging inferno behind her. Basira noticed and began to knead her hands, trying to draw blood into her extremities. It wasn’t doing much, but the touch was a comfort.

“What the hell is that?” Tim asked suddenly.

Melanie’s vision was too busy clouding over for her to react. Her thoughts were growing foggy, too, drifting lazily between thoughts.

Then she heard Georgie’s voice, distant though it was, echoing through the valley.

“Hold on!” Georgie shouted. “Melanie, don’t you dare die on me. Not now. Not after you’ve gone so far. Not before I can see you again.”

“Georgie…” she muttered, and a strange, haunting laugh filled the air.

“Not quite,” said a voice that Melanie half-remembered. She could no longer remember if the hands on her belonged to Daisy or Georgie, whether it was Sasha holding her hand or Basira, whether she was laying in bed or on a grassy field. This grew worse when the world began to shift wildly, with strong arms hooking underneath her and lifting her into the air. “Come with me. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

“Georgie…” she said again, and then the world went black.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Burns

“You’re doing so well, Jon.”

Jon and Elias sat under a darkening sky. For some reason, Elias was wearing a very formal suit, which was bafflingly spotless despite the dusty rock upon which he was sitting. Beside Jon, Martin slept, occasionally muttering something nonsensical.

“Really?” Jon asked. “We’re no closer to Mordor than we were yesterday. I’ve no idea where to go, and no idea how much longer we have to travel. We’re running out of food and water, and Martin’s exhausted. I feel as though we’re more lost than ever.”

“Oh, Jon,” said Elias. His gentle smile was a comfort, though the bright sheen of his eyes was unnerving. “You know what you must do when you do not know the answer.”

Jon frowned. “No, I don’t.”

Elias’s smile grew bigger. “ _Ask._ ”

  


* * *

  


Melanie awoke in a large bed, covered in a warm quilt and with Helen at her bedside.

She scrambled to sit up, fumbling for a weapon. Beside her, Helen’s uncanny laughter echoed through the room.

“Where are we?” Melanie panted, glancing around the room. It was sparsely but finely furnished, with a wardrobe opposite the bed and a candelabra on the table beside the bed.

“Where I’ve brought you,” said Helen. “Where you needed to come. Where you were destined to arrive.”

Melanie took slow, even breaths, trying her hardest not to panic. “ _Helen,_ ” she hissed. “Where are we?”

“Oh, don’t fuss. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Why do I bother?” she asked. She rolled to the side and stood, bracing herself against the edge of the bed. Pain radiated out from her thigh in angry waves. Helen watched with hungry, mirthful eyes.

Melanie made her way to the window. It was open to let in the breeze, which was pleasantly cool against her skin. From below, Melanie could hear voices, bubbling up in laughter and companionship. Her window looked out on a great white courtyard, covered in neatly-trimmed green grass. At its center was a white tree, rising like a hand reaching toward the sky. The sight made her sick.

“We’re in Gondor,” Melanie said. “How…”

“You found the right door,” said Helen.

Melanie shot her a glare. “Where are the others?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re around,” said Helen, waving her hand in lazy circles above her spiraling hair. “When I offered to watch over you, they went to get some sleep. I think Tim wanted to spend some time alone with Sasha, if you know what I mean.”

The thought of Tim alone with not-Sasha made Melanie sick. “Right,” she said. “And Basira? Daisy?”

“Resting as well. It’s been such a hard journey for all of you, after all.”

“So the others know about you, then?”

Helen shrugged. “I couldn’t exactly wait until you were alone. You were bleeding to death.”

At the word ‘death,’ Melanie’s heart sank. “Ah, shit,” she groaned. “Georgie must be worried out of her mind.”

“Touched by the End, is she?” Helen asked, cocking her head to one side. “Interesting. I wouldn’t think you’d ally with an avatar that easily.”

“Okay, first off, she’s not just an ‘ally.’ She’s my girlfriend. Second, the End is different.”

“Really?” Helen asked. “Or is that just a way to rationalize your feelings?”

“Well, no,” said Melanie. “That’s sort of the thing about feelings. They can’t be rationalized. The End is different because it doesn’t go out and attack people. It knows it’ll get us eventually.” She took a deep breath, trying to keep down her rising annoyance. “And anyway, I don’t know why I’m still talking to you.” She began to limp towards the door, trying to ignore the burning pain in her thigh.

“It’s no matter,” said Helen. “How’s that leg of yours doing? Seems like the Slaughter left a nasty mark.”

“I mean, I got _stabbed_ by a _ghost,_ so that sucks, but yeah, otherwise, it’s totally peachy!”

“Ooh, you are angry,” said Helen. “Delicious. It looks good on you.”

Melanie gaped at her. “Are you _flirting_ with me?”

“Just talking,” said Helen. “Is that allowed?”

“Look, whatever you are, please just leave me alone.”

Helen raised a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Leave you alone? After I saved your life? After I saved your poor friends?”

“You didn’t save anyone,” Melanie snapped. “You took them. You did something to them. I haven’t even seen Michael, or whatever used to be Michael, and I know for a fact you aren’t Helen anymore.”

“We all change, Ghost,” said Helen. “Some of us accept it more easily than others. My brother never did do well with change. You should have seen him when Jon took over the archives. He would put on such a show of kindness, but it was all a lie, just a way of disguising how much he hated it there after Gertrude left.” She grinned, baring sharp teeth. “In a way, he may be more suited to the Distortion than I am.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Melanie growled. “Just _leave._ ”

“I never really leave,” said Helen. “And besides, if I did, the lovely lady that calls herself Sasha would still be here. You can’t avoid the Fears forever, Melanie. Someday you’ll have to fight back.”

Melanie grabbed the candelabra and flung it at Helen’s incomprehensible form with a wordless cry. Helen caught it in spindly fingers and laughed, a sound so horrible it made Melanie dizzy. Then, from behind her, a yellow door appeared. Helen moved to open it.

“I’ll see you, Ghost,” she said. “Keep an eye on the others, would you?”

Then she stepped through the door and was gone.

  


* * *

  


Jon and Martin had been wandering for hours when, to Jon’s great surprise, they came across the tea table.

It was an ornate wooden table, complete with a delicate china tea set. There, they found two people sitting and enjoying a midday snack: A very small man with blonde hair and a branching scar that wrapped around his neck, and a woman with dark hair and eyes who looked as though she could beat the shit out of both of them.

“Oh,” said Martin as the two figures smiled. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello, Jon,” said the woman. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“You have?” Jon asked. He squeezed Martin’s hand. Martin squeezed back, which did something funny to Jon’s stomach that felt an awful lot like falling. The man grinned.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the man said.

“But we’re being rude,” said the woman. “We haven’t introduced ourselves! I’m Jude, and this is Mike.” She held out a hand for Jon to shake. He did not take it. After a moment, she withdrew it, pouting.

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Martin flatly. “Why are you waiting for Jon, exactly?”

Jude’s smile, if It was possible, grew wider. “Oh, we just heard he had some questions.”

“It’s a favor for a friend,” said Mike. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jon frowned. “So, you’ll answer any questions I have?”

“Mm, no, not necessarily,” said Jude. “You don’t want to be rude, after all.”

“And what will you do if I’m rude?” Jon asked.

Mike flicked his hand toward Jon. “This,” he said, in an almost bored tone.

Suddenly, Jon was falling. This seemed impossible, as both of his feet still rested firmly on the ground, but his body seemed to have forgotten that fact. The air was pulled out of his lungs so quickly that he didn’t have time to shout. After a couple of seconds, the sensation ended, and Jon almost fell over, saved only by Martin’s steady hands at his shoulders.

“What the hell was that?” Jon asked, breathless.

Mike gave him a polite smile. “A warning,” he said. “Now, come on. What would you like to know? Oh, but we’ll need to talk in private. Don’t want your boyfriend prying.” He shot Martin a bored glance. “Sorry.”

“Jon,” said Martin, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Jon sighed. “You’re probably right,” he said, “but we’re lost. I think I know what I need to do. I’ll be back soon.”

“What? Jon, no, don’t you _dare—_ ”

Jon ignored him, instead slipping his hand into his pocket. The Crown was cool, and it fit perfectly on his finger. As soon as he slipped it on, the cave around him vanished into that old world of shadows. This time, without the adrenaline of a fight fueling him, he could feel the tug of the Crown’s power at the back of his mind. He did his best to ignore the urge to hand it over to these monsters, instead fixing his gaze on Mike, who was surrounded on all sides by crackling lightning. He drew on the power that had filled him when he had asked Martin about his necklace, or Tim about his intentions. It crackled like poison in his mouth.

“ _Who sent you to me?_ ”

“Jonah Magnus,” said Mike. “He sends his love.”

“And I’m supposed to believe this isn’t a trap.”

Jude laughed. Her flesh, now that they were in the shadow world, shifted and pulled like hot wax. She set her hands alight. “If it were, you’d already be dead.”

Jon ignored the blazing heat emanating from her body and dug for that same power in his chest. “ _How do we leave this place?_ ” he asked Jude.

“It’s easy,” she said. “Just follow the tunnels. Two rights, a left, the middle path in that one fork and the left in the next, a right, and after that it gets a little weird, but I’m sure you’ll manage it.”

Jon paused. Something about this seemed too easy. He wanted to ask Elias about it, but the man hadn’t appeared in this shadowy place, and Jon doubted he would. Before he could ask another question, Mike hummed thoughtfully.

“You were a good choice for the Eye,” he said. “Curious little thing, aren’t you?”

“I don’t belong to the Eye,” Jon snarled. “I don’t belong to anything.”

“Of course you do,” said Jude. “You’ve been a very good little Archivist, haven’t you? Asking all these questions, having your little adventures—How does it feel to be the tragic hero?”

“I wouldn’t serve the powers,” Jon insisted. “I’m not like you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“No one does, at first,” said Mike. He looked almost remorseful, for a moment. “It wears off. You feed your god or it feeds on you.”

“No one’s _born_ an avatar,” Jude said with a chuckle. “Well, _almost_ no one. You make choices. You live with the consequences. Eventually, you realize the consequences are actually very nice. Haven’t you ever wanted to burn, Archivist? Is there nothing you want to destroy? No one you want to raze?”

Jon’s mind flitted to Nikola pulling Sasha down into that dark crevice, to Trevor and Julia attacking him and his friends, to the Panopticon. He shook his head. “I’m _not like you._ ”

“Of course. You all think you’re so special.” Jude laughed. “You all fall to us, in the end.”

“ _Why are you doing this?_ ” Jon asked, a desperate plea despite its power.

Jude paused. For a moment, she held back her words, her face contorted with rage. Then, as though she couldn’t help but speak, she said, “Humans killed the _one_ person I've ever loved. She died during the first war, and there was _no point_. She wouldn't have hurt anyone. She didn't want to be like us anymore. They killed her anyway. I want them all dead—every single human, every elf, every dwarf. I want them to burn for what they’ve done to the people I loved. I want them to know what it feels like to boil. I want to destroy everything, and right now, Jonathan Sims, I want to _destroy you._ ”

Martin stepped in front of Jon as Jude stood. Jon realized that he had slipped the Crown off his finger at her words. He shook ever-so-slightly as Martin reached back and grabbed his hand. “That’s enough,” he said. “Jon, do we have what we need?” When Jon made a small noise of assent, Martin nodded. “Then let’s go.”

Jude laughed. “Oh?” she said. “Now the little hobbit’s going to protect his little boyfriend, is that it? You can’t leave. If you try, we’ll kill you.”

“Jude will kill you,” Mike clarified. “I’m enjoying my tea.”

“Fine,” said Jude. “ _I’ll_ kill you. That is, unless you do something for me.”

“And what is that?” Jon asked.

“Shake my hand,” said Jude.

“What?” Jon asked.

“We gave you what you wanted. You hurt my feelings, earlier. Shake my hand.”

Jon hesitated. “Will it… hurt?”

“No,” said Jude. In front of him, Martin shifted uncomfortably. Jon let out a shaky sigh, stepped out from behind Martin, and let his hand hang in the air between them.

“Fine,” he said.

Jude gripped his hand and shook, once. From deep within his skin came a burning sensation, at first as mild as standing beside a fire but growing to something so large and hot that Jon felt as though his very blood was boiling. He let out a pained cry as the sensation built, prompting Martin to sprint to his side and try his best to pull Jon back.

“I lied,” said Jude, voice filled with glee.

“Jon!” Martin shouted. With some difficulty, Jon managed to pull away from Jude’s waxy flesh. It clung to his skin, burning all the while. In a second, Martin had pulled his knife from his pocket and was peeling the wax from Jon’s hand, swearing up a storm. He glared at Jude and Mike, both of whom were giggling. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Oh, hush,” said Jude. “You’ll understand when you’re older. I’ve told little Jonny here, but I suppose I’ll tell you too: You’ll all fall to us, in the end.”

Martin took a step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, but Jon held him back with his good hand. “Let’s just go,” he said through gritted teeth, trying not to faint from the pain and shock ricocheting up and down his arm.

Martin glanced at him, and his anger gave way to concern. He looked back up at Mike and Jude, both of whom were nearly in tears from laughter. “Do you think they’ll just… let us go?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “I think they’ve got what they wanted. We should leave before they come up with anything more.”

They stepped past the tea table, Martin holding Jon’s weight with one arm and the hilt of his sword with the other, and crept into the next tunnel. They didn’t stop until they had taken at least four turns, Jon following the path that Mike and Jude had given him.

“Are you sure we should trust their directions?” Martin asked, after they took the fifth turn. “I don’t like the idea of them following us.”

“They won’t follow,” said Jon. “And anyway, they were telling the truth. This is the path we must follow if we wish to reach Mordor before its army reaches Gondor.”

Martin glanced at him worriedly. “How do you know, though? Like, how can you be sure they weren’t lying and this isn’t some massive trap?”

“I don’t know,” said Jon. “I don’t know, and that’s terrifying, Martin, so please don’t make me talk about it anymore.”

Something in his voice must have jolted Martin back to their situation, because suddenly, his face fell. “Oh, Jon,” he said, stopping in his tracks, “your hand.”  
Jon had been trying very hard to ignore the building, throbbing pain in his palm, but it was no use. As soon as Martin stopped, Jon felt his knees buckle with pain. Martin helped him turn his lightheaded fall into a more controlled descent.

“I’m sorry,” Jon gasped, cradling his wrist with his good hand. “I didn’t know she would do that.”

Martin just shook his head and rummaged in his pack. “We’ll have to clean it and bandage it,” he said. “It’s going to hurt. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jon said.

Martin got to work washing out his palm with water and the small bottle of alcohol, then began to bandage it. The fabric bandages hurt more than the air had, and Jon felt tears welling in his eyes. He tried his best to hold them in for Martin’s sake, but as gentle as Martin was, the pain grew to be too much.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said again, his voice breaking.

Jon shook his head. “Don’t be,” he said. “I’m… glad you were there, anyway. Same in the swamp. It helps.”

Martin met Jon’s eyes. His eyes were also shiny with tears, though he looked more angry than sad. He took a couple of deep breaths before speaking, but when he did, he said, “You shouldn’t have to get hurt like this.”

“Oh,” said Jon. Martin kept his eyes locked with Jon’s, as though all that righteous fury could be beamed directly into his head, as though it could protect him from all the world’s monsters. For a moment, Jon believed that it could.

Then Martin glanced back down at the bandage, and the moment was gone. “Right,” he said. “I think that’ll have to do. We’ll let it air tonight, and hopefully it’ll heal as quickly as the others have. I just hope she didn’t damage the nerves.”

Though Martin didn’t see them, the tears that spilled from Jon’s eyes at that moment had little to do with pain and much to do with a sort of all-encompassing affection that had, very suddenly, swelled within him. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” said Martin as he began to pack his things. “I think we’d better get going. It’s still a few hours ‘till nightfall.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Blood

When Melanie finally found the others, they were dining in the great hall where Tim’s father served as steward.

He told them about his father as they ate, recalling a man who had been told all his childhood that, as an adult, whoever he married would become the Steward of Gondor. Tim said his grandfather had been delighted when, at the age of sixteen, Matthew Stoker had informed everyone that the male line of Stokers had not ended with him and his sister. He had gone on to be the kingdom’s greatest steward in a century. Tim went on to describe his mother’s similar childhood, the way she and her brother had not, in fact, ended the Hooper line of female knights, and how she had been slain honorably in battle in one of the first skirmishes against Mordor’s growing darkness.

“But you see,” he explained, sipping mead and not-quite disguising the sadness behind his eyes, “she and Danny had this joke, when Danny was a kid, called the Story of the Purple Flower…”

Melanie watched as not-Sasha stood blankly by, laughing quietly when appropriate and otherwise staying out of the conversation. Basira had begun to eye her suspiciously when she wasn’t looking, which was more than a little reassuring to Melanie, and Daisy would sniff every time Sasha reached for one of the pieces of meat by her plate. When they were finished eating, Melanie asked Tim to hold on for a second, claiming she wanted another opinion on a new sword.

“Why are you asking me?” Tim asked. “I’m sure Basira has something closer to your size.”

“Okay, one,” said Melanie, “I’m not that much shorter than you.”

Tim snorted. “Sure, if that’s what you’d like to believe.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. “ _Two,_ ” she said, trying very hard not to stare at not-Sasha, “I want to ask a human. Similar sword styles, you know?”

“All right, all right,” said Tim. “Hey, Sash, I’ll catch up later, yeah?”

Not-Sasha smiled, her face placid as the sea before a storm. “Of course,” she said. When she walked away, it half-looked like she was gliding.

Melanie pulled out her sword, fully prepared to lean into the deception until she was certain not-Sasha had left. “See, look at the hilt,” she said, pointing to a small insignia that had been carved into it.

Tim leaned closer. “I can’t see it,” he complained. “Ugh, the lighting in this room is awful.”

“Look closer,” Melanie urged. “It’s important.”

When Tim’s head rested less than an inch from hers, she took a steadying breath, then whispered, “That isn’t Sasha.”

Tim’s head whipped up from where it had been positioned over the sword. He looked frightened at Melanie’s words, but unsurprised—had he really known all along?

“What do you mean,” he asked, though his words were flat. “Of course that’s Sasha.”

“Keep _quiet,_ ” Melanie whispered. “And besides, you know it isn’t. Think about it. What is Sasha’s favorite accessory?”

“Her rings,” Tim replied automatically. Then he frowned. “Wh— No. It can’t be. She hasn’t worn her rings since…”

“Since the forest, Tim,” said Melanie. Though she wanted to be comforting, all she could feel was anger. “That _thing_ replaced her. It killed her, and then it took her place.”

Tim shook his head again, staring at the door where not-Sasha had left. “No,” he said, but he no longer sounded sure of himself. “I… I don’t understand.”

“It’s the Stranger. It must be. It took her, Tim, and we didn’t even know.”

Tim’s eyes darkened. Behind them, Melanie could see the fire she had seen when Sasha had died, the sort of anger that could bring a whole city down around them. Melanie felt that anger in herself, too, though the shape of it was different. She supposed it didn’t matter what form that anger took, as long as it ended in not-Sasha’s death.

“What do we do?” Tim asked, and Melanie’s face lit up in a wicked smile.

“We’ll have to tell the others,” she said, “but I think I’ve got a plan.”

  


* * *

  


The caves were dark, but not Dark. After three long days in the tunnels outside of Mordor, all Jon wanted was to emerge into the sunlight once again—or, at least, somewhere he could see the sky.

“Time for lunch,” said Martin, sounding exhausted. “Or dinner.” He frowned. “Did we have lunch today?”

Jon shrugged. “I don’t think time moves the same way here,” he said. Martin sat and Jon joined him, digging in his pack for bread.

When he came up empty, his heart began to race.

“What?” Martin asked, when Jon began to dig through his pack again, pulling out clothes and healing herbs and placing them on the ground beside him. Still, when his pack was empty, he had not found any bread.

“I’m out of food,” said Jon. He let out a little hopeless laugh of disbelief and anger. “I haven’t got any bread.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Martin. “You can have some of mine. Here.”

Martin began to dig through his pack as well. Jon frowned.

“Even if we share yours, there can’t be much left. We’ve been travelling for weeks.”

“We’ll be able to hunt when we’re out of these tunnels, or steal some food from Mordor’s people. We’ll be fine.”

Jon shook his head. “It’s at least another week of travel before we get out of these tunnels. Elias says—”

“Elias?” Martin asked. “Who’s Elias?”

“Oh,” said Jon. “Um, he’s a man. He’s been guiding me through the tunnels.”

Martin glanced around the room cautiously. “Jon, there’s no one else here.”

“No, I know that,” said Jon, shaking his head. “He’s been speaking to me in… oh, I guess you’d call them dreams. We’re connected, somehow. I think he’s tied to the Eye, and I think…” Jon stared at the ground, unable to meet Martin’s gaze. “I think I am, too.”

“No,” said Martin. “No, no way. First of all, we are _not_ following some weird dream-spirit-thing that tells you how to get into Mordor. You don’t know if he’s lying, or leading you into a trap, or—”

“He isn’t _lying._ I can tell when people are lying. I knew with Jude, and I would know with him.”

“But how can you be _sure,_ Jon?”

“Because!” Jon shouted. He stood, folding his arms over his chest and beginning to pace. “Because I just _am,_ Martin. Jude said the Eye is… is helping me, or something. I think it knows I have the Crown, and it wants me to bring it to the Panopticon.”

“But that’s not where we need to go. We need to bring it to Hill Top, to destroy it. That’s what Sasha said.”

Jon realized that he was fiddling with the Crown. He dropped his arms to his sides as though he was burned. “I know,” he said. “I thought I would follow its directions until we could see the way to Hill Top, then bring it there, instead. I don’t want to bring it to the Panopticon. And besides,” he said, suddenly remembering his arm, “it hasn’t been all bad. My hand hurts less now than it did even a few hours ago, and I healed from all those wounds that should have killed me. I think the Eye wants me alive, and if it didn’t, I’d have died five times over.”

“But how can you trust it, Jon?” Martin asked. “How do you know that it won’t betray you, like Sasha said? If it knows you want to destroy the Crown—and if it’s the Eye, it probably knows—what’s stopping it from abandoning you as soon as you turn away from the Panopticon, or leaving you to die so it can be picked up by someone else? What’s stopping it from twisting you into one of those things, an avatar, and getting you to bring it to Magnus yourself?”

“I don’t know,” said Jon. It felt as though all the air had gone out of him. He sat beside Martin again and rubbed at his face with his good hand. “I don’t know. All I know is that right now, we’re on the right track. I don’t know a better way to navigate this. I don’t know what to do.”

“Jon,” said Martin, but Jon shook his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he said. He looked up to meet Martin’s eyes, so full of concern that it made Jon’s heart ache. “I think I am becoming an avatar, Martin. If it comes down to it, you may need to kill me to stop Magnus from getting the Crown. For now, though, I think this is the only way.”

Martin shook his head. “Don’t say that,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t do that. Not ever.”

“Even if it would save you? If it would save the world?”

Martin let out a sigh. “I just don’t want to think about it, Jon.”

Jon nodded. Martin handed him a piece of bread. They ate in silence, Jon pressed against Martin’s side. The bread was dry and hard, so stale it was difficult to eat. They had little water left, and what they did have was warm and mixed with the silt and dust on Jon’s lips as he drank it. His legs ached, his hand ached (though less than it probably should have), and all Jon could think about was that summer day in the Shire, months and months before, when he had found Martin beside Gertrude’s body and everything had changed.

“I wish we had never come,” he said. “I wish we had left this all to someone else. I wish we had gone home.”

Martin nodded. “I know,” he said. “But who else would there have been?”

“Someone stronger,” said Jon. “Someone braver. Sasha, maybe, or Basira. Someone who would know what to do.”

“I don’t think there was anyone better,” said Martin. “I hate that it was you. I hate that you’ve been hurt, and nearly killed, and that you have to wear that thing around your neck, and that you can’t have good food and a real bed, but I don’t know who else could have done it.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” said Jon, struggling to keep the emotion from his voice. Still, tears welled up in his eyes at Martin’s words. “I suppose we just have to do it.”

“Yeah, I think so,” said Martin. His smile was sad, tinged with the sort of grief that Jon had only just started to feel but which, he suspected, had plagued Martin throughout their whole journey. Jon was struck with the realization that Martin had suffered just as much as he had—perhaps more—and that he had stuck by Jon’s side the entire way.

“I could tell you how to go home,” said Jon. “If you want. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

Martin shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to, either, and certainly not alone. If you’re going, I’m going with you.”

He stood and helped Jon to his feet. The two of them began to walk into the tunnels once more, hand in hand.

  


* * *

  


Melanie cornered Daisy next.

They had all been invited to a war meeting by Tim’s father, Matthew. As the reigning Steward of Gondor, he oversaw all military operations, including, as they would discuss at that meeting, the incoming army from Mordor.

“They were spotted along our southern border at dawn,” Matthew explained. “Our riders moved swiftly, but it is likely that they have already overtaken the port. They will arrive in Gondor by the end of the week. They have at least ten thousand soldiers, many of which are non-human, as my son will explain.”

Tim gave a succinct explanation of the creatures they had encountered throughout their journey. Gondor’s council of generals was appalled; Mordor’s monsters had not dared emerge from that dark kingdom in living memory (though, if you asked Melanie, that was due more to the short lives of humans than to the reluctance of Mordor’s army).

“But how can we fight them?” asked one of the generals. “Our city is a fortress, but we have nowhere near ten thousand. Our army is far too small for this.”

“We have sent out riders to the nearest cities and towns,” said Matthew. “They will rouse an army, and we will arm them.”

“That will still leave us with fewer than five thousand,” said the other general. “We cannot win this fight.”

“We _must,_ ” said Matthew. “This is the last stand for humankind. If Mordor takes the city, it will be the end of us all. We cannot allow our people to fall to Mordor’s forces. We will fight to the bitter end, and we _will_ win the day!”

Beneath the table, Melanie passed a note to Basira. Basira pocketed it without looking. Melanie only hoped she could find the time to read it without not-Sasha’s interference.

The generals began to formulate a plan for the city’s defense. Melanie half-listened, paying attention only to the role she would play in battle. She had spoken to Tim already; their plan would commence in the middle of the attack, and it would likely mean their ends. Tim was satisfied with that; Melanie only hoped she could make it back to Georgie alive.

The meeting was long, but when it was over, Melanie made a beeline to Basira and Daisy. Daisy’s eyes had followed not-Sasha throughout the entire meeting, even as she departed beside Tim. Melanie admired that focus; she hoped it would win them the day.

“So what’s the plan?” Basira asked.

Melanie explained, carefully keeping her voice low to avoid being overheard. Basira and Daisy nodded along, adding advice where they could. When she was finished explaining, Daisy nodded.

“I’ll get her where she needs to be,” she said. “And you’ll finish the job?”

Melanie nodded. “For Sasha.”

Daisy took a deep breath. “Right. I’m going to keep an eye on that thing in the meantime. Not enough to be suspicious, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

Melanie nodded. “Be safe,” she said.

Daisy left. Basira stayed, though, keeping a cautious eye on Melanie.

“What?” Melanie asked, pierced by Basira’s gaze.

“You’re the heir of Gondor, aren’t you?” said Basira. “One of the Dúnedain, and the last living heir of the Piper, the one who started the first war with Mordor.”

Melanie’s heart froze in her chest. “Um,” she said.

“You know this palace. You’ve been here before. And still, a steward sits beside the throne. Why don’t you take charge?”

“It isn’t the right time,” said Melanie. “It’s not right. I’m not royalty. I’m a ranger. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“So you will avoid your destiny for your own comfort?” Basira asked. “You’ll avoid your duty, your people, so you can keep playing soldier out in the woods?”

Melanie felt her anger flare up in her chest. “It’s not like that,” she hissed. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t possibly.”

Basira rolled her eyes. “Right. Because I’m just some peasant elf from Lothlorien?”

“You don’t know what it means to be the Piper’s heir,” Melanie snapped. “You wouldn’t have the first idea. He was an agent of the Slaughter. He led ten thousand men to a pointless death, and killed thousands more in some stupid bid for power. Do you know what Gondor was like under his rule? They’re the reason why Mordor gained power. They’re the reason the Crown was never destroyed. The Piper did everything in his power to kill, to fill rivers with blood, and he passed that anger down to every single one of his descendants.

“I’m too dangerous to rule,” she explained. “We were all too dangerous to rule. Thank the gods my father left Gondor to Tim’s family, because they’re the only reason the kingdom’s still standing. And don’t you ever accuse me of abandoning this place again. I know what I’m doing, and I know what I’m giving up, so leave me the hell alone.”

She stormed away, doing her best to compose herself and failing. It felt as though anger was exploding out of her, begging her to throw a punch or swing her sword. Her thigh ached where the arrow had pierced it.

_One more week, Melanie,_ she told herself. _One more week, and then it’s all over._

  


* * *

  


The tunnels twisted in on themselves.

Jon tried to keep track. Elias’s guidance, which had once been so clear in his mind, was beginning to fade. He kept a tight grip on Martin’s hand as they went, fearful that letting go would mean permanent separation.

After the sixth impossible left turn, Jon began to panic. If he couldn’t guide them through, what would happen? Would they starve to death in these tunnels, going mad with hunger until their minds were gone completely? Or would some creature come to them, horrible and twisted, and rend them limb from limb?

“We’re lost,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

When he turned, though, Martin was gone.

Jon stared down at his hand. He was, indeed, clutching someone else’s hand, though it was oddly heavy for such a slender and small hand. The hobbit to which it was attached was also slender, though not nearly as small. His golden curls were no longer constrained to his normal braids and ponytails, and they spilled over his shoulders in a pattern that made Jon’s head hurt. Even his smile seemed distorted, altered in some inscrutable way until it was no longer shy and comforting but was menacing, terrifying, achingly alien.

“Michael?” Jon asked.

Michael nodded. “I once used that name,” he said. “Hello, Archivist.”

Jon frowned. “I don’t… Why is everyone calling me that?”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” At Jon’s nod, he laughed. It echoed through the tunnels, loud and clear and awful. “Well, that’s what you were, correct? After poor, sweet Gertrude passed on. What a shame!”

“What happened, Michael?” Jon asked. “Why are you like this?”

“I am no longer Michael,” he said.

“Then who are you?”

Michael’s smile grew, if possible, even wider. “I am not a ‘who,’ Archivist. I am a ‘what.’ You made me this way, you know.”

“Where’s Martin?”

Michael’s laugh echoed down the tunnels again. “Oh, how lovely to see that you’ve finally worked it out. Michael and Gerry had a bet, you know. Michael thought you two would be together by the end of the summer. He would have been so happy to be right. You know he loved romance.”

Jon gritted his teeth. Hands shaking, he brought his free hand up to his neck and slipped the Crown onto his finger. The world didn’t vanish into shade, but the cave walls vanished, replaced by spiralling fractals. Jon looked back at Michael, whose form shifted so severely that it hurt Jon’s eyes. “ _Where is Martin?_ ”

The smile vanished from Michael’s face. “He’s in my hallways,” said Michael. “I’m keeping him safe. I don’t bear him any ill will. It’s just that he can’t be here for this next part.”

“What do you mean, ‘this next part’?”

Michael shook his head. “That’s for me to know, and for you to find out.”

“ _What next part?_ ”

Michael gasped. “I don’t know,” he said. “Jonah said—”

He clamped his hands over his mouth. His fingers had grown long and sharp as blades, distorting into horrible things that Jon could hardly comprehend. He shook his head.

“What did Jonah say?”

“That he’d guide you here,” Michael said, his voice strained. “That he’d guide you out. That I need only do _this._ ”

On that last word, Michael reached one long finger over and pierced Jon’s shoulder, the one that hadn’t been marked by the Corruption’s blade. He screamed as Michael dug his finger in deeper, slicing through skin and muscle and nerves like paper.

“Oh, come now, Archivist,” said Michael. “You know the phrase. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! Well, now you’re stronger.”

Then, as though Jon had never stepped into that horrible place, Michael was gone, and all that was left was a long, straight, singular tunnel.

Jon shivered, glancing behind him with fear, and slipped the Crown off his finger. Michael was gone, yes, but so was Martin, and though Michael had said he was safe, Jon didn’t know what to believe anymore. Michael’s words echoed in his mind as horribly as his laugh had echoed in those tunnels, until Jon didn’t know which words he could trust.

“Martin,” he whispered, taking a cautious step forward. The tunnel was dark, and it ended about fifty feet in front of him, though the room beyond it was also dark.

“ _Martin,_ ” he whispered again, more urgently this time. There was no answer.

Jon held one hand up to his bleeding shoulder, pressing against it as though that would ease the ache. He took another cautious step forward and then another, praying with each step that his next step would bring Martin into view.

It didn’t. Instead, when he reached the end of the tunnel, he saw a large cavern, itself filled with branching tunnels but also dotted with other, smaller caverns. It was covered in stalactites and stalagmites, making it difficult to see even a little way beyond the tunnel’s end. It was covered in shining silver strands, reflecting light from a large gap in the cave’s ceiling, through which shone the silver light of a full moon. It was Jon’s first view of the sky in weeks.

He crept forward and approached one of those silver strands, feeling it cautiously with his uninjured hand. It was sticky and interwoven with several other strands, and strong enough not to break when he pulled at it. It took some effort to free his hand from it, and with horror and revulsion, Jon realized it was a strand of spiderweb.

He stumbled backwards, pulling his sword from its sheath. It glinted with the moon’s silver light, reflecting onto the rock around him. When his back met something solid, he jumped, whirling around with his sword raised before realizing it was only the cave wall.

_All right, Jon,_ he thought. _You know which way to go. You just have to be brave enough to go there._

He only hoped he would reach the other side.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Combat/weapons, depersonalization, spiders, explosions, death

Melanie watched the city prepare for battle.

Several thousand young people had arrived over the past week to assist Gondor in its fight. Many of them were untrained, inexperienced, and most had never even seen a sword, much less held one. Melanie had been assisting in their training as best she could, but there was only so much she could do within the span of a few days, and she knew, deep down, that most of these people would not survive the battle ahead.

At night, she met with the other in secret rooms across the city, moving gunpowder from one area to another at breakneck speed. Tim had explained how he had extracted the stuff from some of Sasha’s old fireworks and managed to recreate it, but the explanation hadn’t managed to convey how he’d created _so damn much._ Every night, Melanie went to bed aching, and woke far too soon to teach a bunch of children how to play soldier like it would do anything to save their lives.

Daisy and Basira spent most of their time keeping not-Sasha away from the city’s more secret spots by bringing her with them to prepare the city walls for attack. They claimed her spells would be needed to reinforce any weak spots, and though that was true, it was also a convenient excuse to keep an eye on her. Their plan would mean nothing if not-Sasha caught wind of it; in fact, if Mordor’s spies could get hold of their gunpowder, it would mean Gondor’s ruin.

After the fifth consecutive night of bringing gunpowder to the tunnels around the edge of the city, Melanie was exhausted. Luckily, they still had a full day before Mordor’s army was set to arrive, and the gunpowder was all in place; all that was left to do was keep not-Sasha away from it.

As she emerged from the tunnels, Melanie met Tim’s gaze. “For Sasha,” she said.

Tim’s expression was grim but determined. “For Sasha,” he agreed.

Then they parted ways until the beginning of battle.

  


* * *

  


Jon crept down another dark tunnel stringed with spiderwebs and decided that, if he ever got out of this place alive, he would sleep under the stars every night for the rest of his life.

It was cool and damp. Mysterious liquids dripped around him every once in a while, scaring him half to death when they dropped onto his face. He kept thinking he had heard some sort of skittering noise behind him and whipping around to face it, only to find the tunnel behind him empty. He didn’t know how much was in his head and how much was the weird acoustics of this horrible, horrible cavern.

Worse, he couldn’t seem to shake Elias. The man kept following him and making suggestions about which way to turn. Jon didn’t want to hear it.

“He said Magnus would guide me,” said Jon. “I’m not an idiot, Elias. I only wish I had told Martin sooner. He knew not to trust you, and he was right.”

Elias’s placid smile didn’t budge. “Don’t be silly, Jon,” he said. “If you’d like to rot away in this cave, be my guest. You won’t be able to say I didn’t warn you.”

Jon shook his head. “Why won’t you just _leave?_ ”

Elias laughed. “I’m part of you, Jon,” he said. “We’re connected. You, my Archivist, and me, your Eyes. We’re so much stronger together, don’t you think?”

“I’m not listening to you,” said Jon. He turned down another webbed tunnel. “You aren’t helpful.”

“I could be,” said Elias. “I think I’ve been very useful to you, so far. Certainly, you’ve been useful to me.”

“Do you have to rub it in?” Jon asked. “God, you’re a bastard. If you want to help me so badly, why won’t you let me find Martin?”

“Oh, Jon,” said Elias, “you know how silly that is. You want him to be safe, don’t you?”

“I thought that was why you were here. To keep me safe.”

“No,” said Elias. “I’m here to guide you. There _is_ no safety here.”

From behind came another skittering. Jon turned, heart pounding, to find the tunnel empty.

“I can help you escape this place,” said Elias, “but only if you let me.”

Jon turned back and continued walking. “I don’t need your help. Don’t forget, I’m of the Eye, too. Everything you can see, I can see.”

Elias smirked. In a singsong voice, he said “I can see anything better than you.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you—ugh.”

Elias laughed. “Oh, Jon. You do amuse me.”

“Shut _up._ ”

Jon turned another corner. The spiderwebs grew thicker here; Jon began to slice through them with his sword, shuddering each time one of them brushed against his face.

“We could be so powerful together,” said Elias. “Can’t you imagine it?”

“I don’t need to imagine it,” said Jon. “I just need to leave this place.”

“I can help with that, too.”

“I don’t need your help!”

Jon’s shout echoed through the cavern. The skittering grew louder again, then stopped.

“Oh, Jon,” said Elias gleefully. “I think that may have been a fatal mistake.”

Elias was no longer looking at Jon. Instead, he was staring over his shoulder, looking at something behind Jon. Jon’s heart dropped and he began to turn, slowly, dreading what he would see.

His scream echoed through the cavern, too.

  


* * *

  


The army of Mordor arrived the next morning.

Basira stared down at it from the long line of archers. She had never seen so many living beings in her life; they stretched on so far that, from her perch, they looked like a dark tide rolling in, gathering under the clouds like a summer storm.

Daisy stood beside her, though her head barely peaked over the walls even with the box she stood upon. She had no bow and arrow, but she had sworn she would stay by Basira’s side throughout this battle, and so she stood there, her Dwarven armor glinting in the faint light. Basira held her bow, an arrow nocked but not drawn, and felt stronger for Daisy’s presence.

She knew that, a hundred feet below them, Tim and Melanie were preparing for another kind of battle. The Stranger was only part of Mordor’s army, but Tim had vowed to destroy it completely. Basira only hoped he was not destroyed along the way.

From below came the sound of a horn, and then of war drums, beating like an angry heart. Beside her, Basira felt Daisy straighten.

“Guess it’s time,” she said.

Basira nodded. “Guess it’s time,” she said. At the order, she drew back her arm and prayed that her arrow would fly true.

  


* * *

  


Martin swore, wandering down tunnel after tunnel and hoping that in the next one—no, the next one, please—he would find Jon again.

_I can’t believe I let him wander off,_ he thought. _Jon, where the hell are you?_

Around every corner, Martin saw another of those horrible yellow doors. Though he had seen the inside of one before, he did not trust his ability to navigate through its halls alone, so he dutifully ignored each one, moving on quickly to avoid whatever creature lurked within. The tunnels had to end sometime, he reasoned; he only needed to reach their end and find Jon outside.

The tunnels were nearly as winding as those horrible hallways had been, but Martin kept walking, unsure of every step but determined to keep taking them.

_Where are you, Jon? Please, please, let me find him this time. This time. This time._

But no matter which turns he took, Martin was alone.

  


* * *

  


Screams filled the air.

Tim swung his sword wildly, cutting through monsters as though it would do anything more than line the streets with their blood. Maybe that was what he wanted; maybe, if he could kill every single one, the blood of all ten thousand would be enough to quiet the raging grief within.

Not-Sasha was nowhere to be found. Tim preferred it that way; if she had fought by his side, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid turning on her in front of everyone. No, better that she had vanished early in the battle, that he be able to find her, track her down, drag her down with him. It was what she deserved. It was what he deserved.

Better not to think about what he deserved, not after he had driven Jon and Martin away and let Michael and Helen get kidnapped and _not recognized that his friend, his best friend, had been replaced—_

No. Better just to let that anger extend through his sword, to let it tear and rip and _cut and kill every last bastard—_

Tim was alone. The Strangers around him littered the ground, dead. His sword was coated in their blood. He took a moment to wipe it on his shirt, to catch his breath before plunging back into battle.

“Tim?” said a horribly familiar voice.

Tim turned. It was Sasha— _no, it wasn’t_ —standing there with her staff raised, that eternal smile painting her face. Tim wanted to burn it off of her.

“Yeah?” he asked.

Not-Sasha gestured back towards the building behind her. “There’s a medical center set up inside, if you need it. Otherwise, Melanie wants us both to go underground. She says there’s a trap in the tunnels for their soldiers. We’re meant to set it up.”

Tim feigned surprise. “Oh,” he said. “I’m not hurt. We can go now. I didn’t know there was anything down there.”

“She’ll meet us there,” said not-Sasha, “to explain everything.”

“All right,” said Tim. He wiped a hand over his forehead, clearing away sweat and blood. “Lead the way.”

  


* * *

  


Jon turned around.

Before him stood a massive spider, so large it could have swallowed him whole. Jon stumbled backwards, staring at its glistening maw. It took a cautious step forward, and its eight eyes, each the size of a dinner plate, glistened.

He screamed with a volume he would not previously have thought possible.

“Oh, Jon,” said Elias, feigning disappointment, “I told you to listen to me.”

Jon stumbled back again. The spider took another step forward.

“When I say ‘run,’” said Elias, “you should probably run.”

Jon nodded, far too scared to speak.

“All right,” said Elias. The spider reared up. “Ready?” Jon braced himself, aiming for a spot between its massive legs. “ _Run._ ”

Jon sprinted forward, dodging the spider’s mandible and diving below its abdomen. He scrambled to his feet and ran, too scared to look back. Beside him, Elias shouted directions, which Jon followed without thinking.

“There’s a smaller tunnel ahead,” Elias shouted. “She won’t be able to get you there. Go!”

“She?” Jon panted.

“Annabelle,” said Elias. “Avatar of the Web. Very powerful. You don’t want her to catch you.”

Jon dove into the small entrance to the tunnel as it appeared. Behind him, he heard Annabelle collide with the cave wall. He turned in time to see her squeezing her head into the tunnel, but her massive abdomen couldn’t fit. After a moment, she retreated.

“I can’t stay here forever,” Jon gasped. “She’ll wait out here, or go to the other end.”

“I did tell you,” said Elias.

“Shut it,” said Jon. “How do I get out of here?”

“She’ll guard this entrance,” said Elias. “You’ll have to crawl through this tunnel until you reach the other end, then try to sneak away.”

“And if I can’t?”

“You can,” said Elias. “You have the Crown.”

“It doesn’t shield me from avatars,” said Jon, “as you very well know. I’m not putting it on.”

“It's worth trying. In either case, you’ll just have to be careful, won’t you?”

Jon sighed, but he began to crawl through the tunnel. “I don’t know why I ever listened to you,” he complained. “You’re insufferable.”

“You listened to me because, whether you like it or not, I am your best chance at reaching Mordor. Even when you leave these tunnels, you will need my guidance. Do you really believe you can find Hill Top on your own?”

“You won’t lead me to Hill Top,” Jon pointed out. “You’ll lead me to the Panopticon. I know you want the Crown, and I know you’re Jonah Magnus, and I don’t think for a second you’ll be of any help to me once I leave this place.”

“I think,” said Elias, “once you leave this place, the Panopticon is exactly where you’ll want to go.”

Ahead, Jon could see a spot of light growing in the distance. He crawled towards it, ignoring Elias’s words.

“Where do I go once I get out of this tunnel?” Jon whispered.

“Straight ahead,” said Elias. “This is a very direct path out of this cavern.”

Jon nodded. “All right,” he said. He glanced back at Elias. “You know I don’t trust you, right?”

Elias laughed. “Oh, Jon,” he said, “of course you do. After all, what other choice do you have?”

Jon just shook his head and climbed out of the tunnel.

  


* * *

  


Tim and not-Sasha arrived at the tunnel entrance just as Melanie finished moving the last crate of gunpowder.

“Finally,” she said. “Okay. The three of us are heading down this tunnel now, and then we’re meeting the others at the end.”

“What’s the plan?” Tim asked.

Melanie shrugged. “Your dad said to meet there,” she said. “He said he’d explain when we were all there.”

Not-Sasha nodded down the hallway. “Then by all means, let’s go,” she said.

Melanie took the lead, though she kept a conversation going as an excuse to keep glancing back at Tim. If not-Sasha suspected at any point that they knew what she was, they’d all be dead, and the city would be lost. Melanie feared every time she turned that the next time, Tim would be dead, and she would be alone with that monstrous thing.

They descended deeper into those winding tunnels until, at last, they reached Daisy. When Melanie asked where Basira was, Daisy just shrugged.

“She said she’d go ahead. Told me to wait for the rest of you here.”

They continued like that, now with Daisy bringing up the rear, until, finally, not-Sasha let out a sigh.

“If you’re going to kill me,” she said, “you might as well do it now.”

The others whirled, turning on her with swords and axes drawn. Not-Sasha simply smiled.

“After all,” she said, “you won’t be able to do so for much longer.”

As they watched, her form began to shift in strange and horrible ways. Her arms lengthened, and her face seemed to shift between a thousand other faces, each ringing as false as the last. She hunched forward and growled, showing her teeth. Daisy growled back twice as fiercely.

“You _will_ regret this,” said the not-Sasha. “I know you will.”

Then she sprung forward and attacked.

  


* * *

  


Jon ran for his life.

From behind him, he could hear that same skittering over the sound of Elias’s laughter. He ignored it, focusing on each step and fearing the moment his legs gave out beneath him. Fear gave him wings, and he flew so quickly that the air almost stung, pumping his arms and hoping that he could at least make it far enough to stop to rest.

His hopes were fruitless. He was moving so quickly that, when he ran face-first into the spiderweb, he nearly broke through the first layer of webbing.

Elias cackled as Jon began to struggle against the web, but it was no use; he was trapped.

“Don’t look now,” said Elias, “but I think Annabelle is on her way.”

Jon did his best to tilt his wrist enough to slash through the webs with his sword. It worked, but slowly, and each layer of webbing had another layer behind it. That skittering sound echoed down the tunnels again, sending spikes of fear through his heart.

“Hurry, Jon,” Elias laughed. “She’s coming.”

He managed to get his arm free and swung wildly, dropping to the ground as the webbing snapped. He hacked at the webs ahead of him, desperate to escape, and then, when it became clear he would not be able to get through them, turned to face the spider.

It blocked the entire tunnel behind him with its enormous abdomen. Jon dove beneath it once more, but this time, the spider was ready. He barely managed to roll out of the way of the enormous stinger on its back before it pierced his heart. He stabbed upwards at random, praying desperately that he would hit something, and was showered in dark liquid as his sword pierced its flesh.

The spider screamed, a sound so horrible that Jon had to cover his ears. It crawled backwards and then lunged for Jon once more, mandibles clicking. Jon brought his sword up with a shout. It connected with the center of one of the thing’s great eyes, which sent it reeling back again.

“Oh, good job, Jon!” said Elias. “I think she’s just as scared of you as you are of her, now.”

Jon ignored Elias and swung his sword once more, managing to leave a deep slice in the spider’s face. It stumbled backwards again, and this time, it didn’t return. It stared at Jon for a moment longer before finally, _finally,_ retreating into the dark tunnels behind it.

Jon stood there for a moment, panting. He wiped dark and fetid fluid off his face and leaned against the wall, his legs trembling. Elias waited patiently for him to collect himself. When he was confident that he could speak again, he let out a sigh.

“Please get me out of here,” he said, his voice small. “And please let me see Martin again.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” said Elias. He gestured down the webbed tunnel. “You’ve plenty of time to cut these down, now. Might want to get to work.”

Jon let out a frustrated huff of breath and turned toward the tunnel. He began to hack and slash at the webbing. He was exhausted from his fight, and many of the strands were as thick as his fist. It was slow, tiring work, and by the time Jon had gotten halfway down the tunnel, he had stopped paying attention to anything more than the webbing in front of him and the aching burn of his arm as it sawed through each strand.

That was why, when the stinger pierced his back, he didn’t have time to scream.

He fell in slow motion, every extremity going numb at once. Elias’s face swam in his vision. The spider grasped Jon tenderly between its legs and began to wrap him in webbing, and he couldn’t even scream for someone—Martin, Elias, anyone—to save him. He could only watch as the world around him was covered in silver strands, and then, horribly, as it began to go dark.

_Martin,_ he thought, and then he was gone.

  


* * *

  


She crept through unending halls, bow drawn.

That _thing_ —the one that had taken her friend—had done something to the world, when she changed. Her army was here now, creatures that looked like people she knew and also like people she would never know, and she didn’t know which way was up or down. She didn’t know _anything._

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here, which means there must be somewhere else. If I keep going, I will get somewhere else. Just keep walking.”

And so she did.

  


* * *

  


She swung her axe wildly at several of the things, and they laughed as they danced away from its blade. She had been so close to the monster for so long, and now she was here, the thrill of the chase coursing through her veins. She wasn’t going to give up.

“You can’t catch us,” they sang. “You’ll never catch us.”

But she was a Hunter. The scent of their blood sang through her mind, over and over and over, and there was one in particular that she wanted very badly to catch. She would protect her family. She would catch the monster. She would bathe in its blood.

She swung her axe again, and this time, it connected.

  


* * *

  


Her sword’s inscription was from an old elvish poem about her ancestor’s sword. It had been broken on Hill Top hundreds of years ago, when the Crown had first been forged, but Georgie had remade it.

"The crownless again shall be king," it read. She was crownless. She was King.

“Georgie,” she said to herself, over and over again. “Georgie. Don’t forget Georgie.”

Though she did not remember her own name, she knew this one was important. She clung to it like a lifeline, like an anchor, as she crept through horrible halls, hearing music that was so unlike the music she was used to, a confusing lilt rather than a driving, angry beat.

“Georgie,” she said. “You love Georgie.”

There was no answer.

  


* * *

  


He was fighting it.

It had taken her. _Sasha._ He kept her name clear in his mind, even as his own faded. _This thing killed Sasha._

“Did you really think that fall would kill me?” Nikola said, her face switching rapidly between that horrible blank one and the one that she had used to replace Sasha. “It takes more than that to kill an avatar. Took a lot to kill your friend, too! She was ever so persistent. I kept asking her politely to stop breathing, but she just wouldn’t cooperate!”

Tim let out a wordless yell and swung his sword. _Tim._ He was Tim Stoker. He was Tim Stoker, brother of Danny Stoker, a young boy who had died in battle against the Stranger. He was Tim Stoker, friend of Sasha James, the most brilliant person he’d ever met. He was Tim Stoker, and he would not be taken by the Stranger. Not now, not ever.

“Fucking die already!” he shouted, as he reached for his flint and steel. Nikola’s face lit up with fear—true fear, the only real expression he had ever seen on her face—as he sent sparks flying directly into the nearby pot of gunpowder.

At least he could remember his name as the world flew apart into heat and fire and pain. At least he could remember Danny and Sasha as they’d really been. At least he could hear Nikola’s scream as she was ripped apart, even if he was, too.

And then, the world was fixed, and Tim Stoker was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Spiders, death

When Melanie awoke, it was in that same room where she’d awoken all those days ago, though this time the pain was everywhere, and the person beside her bed was Basira, not Helen.

She tried to sit up, but it became clear very quickly that she would not be able to do so. She was covered in burns and bandages, and the pain was so bad that it took a concerted effort to keep from screaming.

“Don’t try to move,” said Basira dully. “You’ve been asleep for days.”

Basira looked far less injured, with only a couple of bandages on her arms and face, but the look in her eyes was so empty that for a moment, Melanie had to rack her mind for memories of Basira’s face to make sure she hadn’t been replaced. When she was sure that this was, in fact, Basira, she relaxed into the sheets.  
“What happened?” she tried to ask, but what came out was a horrible croaking sound.

Basira reached over to the side table and grabbed a glass of water. She helped Melanie tilt her head enough to drink. Her slender fingers brushed against Melanie’s scalp, and she realized that most of her hair had burned away in the explosion.

_The explosion._

Melanie startled. “Wh—”

Basira shook her head. She placed the water back on the table and sat back in her chair. “It’s just us,” she said. “Tim and Daisy are gone. They found Tim’s body next to that thing, and they haven’t found Daisy, but that makes sense. The explosion killed part of Mordor’s army, but it also killed at least thirty citizens of Gondor. There are more missing, but it’s unclear how many were killed in battle, how many in the explosion, and how many were taken as prisoners of war.”

Her voice was dull, as if she were just reciting something she had learned years ago. Melanie tried to relax and process what Basira had said, but it was as though her mind couldn’t quite keep hold of the details.

“How did you make it out?” she asked instead.

Basira shrugged. “I just kept walking,” she said. “And then I was in the square, and there was fighting everywhere, and I remembered what was going to happen. I turned around to go back for Daisy, and then everything went up in flames.” She hunched forward, wrapping her arms around herself. “I knew no one could survive something like that, and the battle was still going on, so I just had to fight and hope she had made it out. The battle raged for hours after the explosion. We had wiped out hundreds of those things, but they killed thousands of ours. Melanie, we lost.”

Melanie shut her eyes. “Oh,” she said.

“Mordor took the city. We’ve been trying to keep track of who died, but it’s been nearly impossible. They just keep ordering us to rebuild. I’m only here because they’ve got a guard outside.”

“Why?” Melanie asked, though in her heart she knew the answer.

Basira sighed. “They know who you are,” she said. “They know what you mean to this city, to all the humans left in the world. They’re letting you heal, and then they’ll execute you publicly to show that Mordor is stronger than all of humanity combined. I suspect they’ll take me, too, though I’m of no importance to the elves. They killed Matthew this morning in the square, but I don’t think he really understood what was going on. He didn’t take Tim’s loss very well.”

Melanie opened her eyes. Basira was still hunched in on herself, and her eyes were still dull. “And you?”

Basira shook her head. “There’s no time to grieve. We need to come up with a plan to get out of here while we can. Most of the people here are safe in the short-term; there’s no reason for Mordor to kill their new workforce. If we can get out of here and rouse an army, we can retake the city.”

“You know that won’t work,” said Melanie quietly, though everything in her screamed to try it, to kill every last one of the bastards.

Basira shrugged. “Better than sitting here and waiting to die,” she said.

Melanie nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

From outside, Melanie could hear the shouts of Mordor’s soldiers as they ordered Gondor’s people to work. Tim and Daisy’s death was incomprehensible to her, as though the world could not keep turning without them.

She closed her eyes once more. Being awake was exhausting and painful, and she didn’t think she could stand to look at Basira’s empty eyes for another second. Instead, she let the familiar thrum of her anger fill her bones, let it begin to work its way through her mind, until, suddenly, she opened her eyes.

“I think I have a plan,” she said.

Basira nodded. “All right,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”

  


* * *

  


It was hours before Martin was finally able to escape those spiraling tunnels.

He came to a long tunnel with a dark cavern at the end. Once he had left the tunnels, he took a moment to sort his things, to make sure he hadn’t lost that last bit of food, and to take a look at his surroundings. He recognized the silver strands hanging throughout the room as spiderwebs and took care not to touch them, though he did see that some of them looked like they had been cut; he hoped that was evidence that Jon had also come this way, and not that some terrible monster lay in wait for him.

He walked as quickly as he could, leaving scratched arrows in the tunnel walls to mark his progress. He dared not speak, though every part of him wanted to scream Jon’s name until he had been found. Instead, he walked as silently as possible and kept an ear out for whatever horrible thing could have left such massive spiderwebs.

As it turned out, the giant spider that had left them was very obvious from afar.

It was turned away from him, hunched at the entrance of a heavily-webbed tunnel. Martin crept closer to see what it was doing and, to his horror, realized that it was wrapping something large and hobbit-shaped with webbing.

_Jon,_ he thought, and then he was charging.

He managed to leap on top of the monster from a nearby shelf of rock and clung to its back as it bucked. He brought his sword down into its abdomen again and again, even as it spasmed. The thing shook him off in seconds, but not before he had left several large puncture wounds on its back. It scuttled off into another tunnel, leaving its prize behind.

Martin crawled over to the bundle of webbing and began to peel away at the vaguely-head-shaped end. _Please,_ he thought. _Please, don’t let it be Jon. Let it be someone else. Let it be anyone else._

His prayers were not enough, however, and when he had managed to peel away the webbing, it was clearly Jon, eyes open and face pale. He was not breathing.

Martin held his breath for a moment, listening desperately for any sign of life, but there was none. He cut away at the webbing until he could feel for Jon’s pulse at his neck, but there was nothing there. Jon Sims, his best friend, his companion, the person he had vowed to follow to the ends of the earth, was dead.

He held Jon in his arms and cried. He cried for himself, and for the home he had left behind. He cried for Sasha and Gertrude. He cried for ale, for summertime, for the smell of flowers and the taste of tea. He cried for his friends in Gondor, likely off fighting some horrible army, and the peace that they should have known. Mostly, though, he cried for Jon, for the horrible months that had led to this horrible moment, for the man he had loved and now, though it was agony to admit it, lost.

He gave himself five minutes to cry, five minutes to grieve and to hold Jon in his arms, before he wiped his sleeve across his face and took a deep breath. Jon’s death would be for nothing if the Crown was not destroyed; therefore, Martin had to destroy it, even if it meant facing the rest of his journey alone.

He peeled back more of the spiderweb until he could lift his mother’s chain over Jon’s head and place it on his own neck. Then, after a moment of consideration, he pressed a gentle kiss to Jon’s cooling forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He lowered Jon gently to the ground and stood, brushing the dust off his pants. The webbing around him had been slashed to bits; this was probably the way out, if he could trust Jon’s knowledge of this place. He began to hack at the webbing with his sword, anger and grief fueling his every movement.

When he finally cut through the last layer of webbing, he found himself on a shelf of rock jutting out from a mountainside, which overlooked a large and colorless land. To his right, he could see the sun rising, though it would soon disappear into the dark layer of clouds that covered the whole region. In its center was a large tower, upon which sat a great Eye, sweeping its gaze over the whole land. Beside it was a mountain; Hill Top, if Martin had to guess. This, then, was Mordor. The sight of it, of fresh air and the sky and a world that wasn’t just rocks, sent a bolt of terrible loneliness through Martin’s heart.

He began to scramble down the path to his right, taking care to hide behind rocks when he could, though the Eye seemed preoccupied with greater things than a lonely hobbit. Still, every time it swept past him, his hand went to the Crown where it hung from his neck.

_No,_ he told himself. _The Crown is of the Eye. If I put it on, the Eye will find me. I just need to be careful._

“There are other ways to hide yourself,” said a cheerful voice behind him.

Martin turned. Standing there was a man, with grey hair and eyes and wearing, of all things, a sailor’s cap. Martin frowned at him. He seemed so out of place on that mountainside, and half-faded, like he was only a trick of the light. Martin stared at him, and for some reason, the man seemed very familiar, like Martin had known him all his life but never let himself acknowledge it.

“Hello, Martin,” said the man. He held out a hand. “I hear you’re trying to destroy the Crown. My name is Peter Lukas, and I think we’re going to be very good friends.”


End file.
